


Hold Me Close (I'm Falling Apart)

by ajeepandleather



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Bonding, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emissary in Training Stiles Stilinski, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Helpful Deaton, Magic, Magic Stiles, Multi, Pack Bonding, Pack Feels, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Post-Alpha Pack, Puppy Piles, Scent Marking, Scott is a Good Friend, Sharing a Bed, close enough, more like fake/pretend bond, secret keeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9804509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajeepandleather/pseuds/ajeepandleather
Summary: “Wolves without an emissary are naturally turbulent because their instincts are wild. Subconsciously, you’ve been balancing them, but you aren’t tied to the pack so you aren’t getting a balance in return.”“So, they’re bleeding me dry. Always knew they were parasites.” Stiles smiled dryly.“You’ll need to attach yourself to an alpha soon. There are risks for an unbalanced druid.”“Like?”“Well, a disruption in balance may show itself in several ways. It’s a disruption in nature, so nature will twist and alter in an attempt to right itself.”“What does that mean?” Stiles was getting anxious. The vet was avoiding giving direct answers and that never meant anything good.“You’re magic is heavily entwined with your will, and your will is parallel to your mind.”“I’ll go insane.”





	1. Fake It 'Til You Make It

“So, wait. What’s happening?” Scott’s eyes were closed and his head cocked just a bit to the right like he was trying to conjure up an image that he didn’t quite understand. Stiles wanted to throw Derek a treat or something for managing to not roll his eyes at his beta. Their relationship was still strenuous and at times likely to be lethal, but was coming along the more time they spent as a pack. All jokes aside, Derek was doing a good job at dealing with Scott on a regular basis and not just when he absolutely had to.

 

“Alphas of northern California want to gather in a neutral location provided by a group of druids to discuss treaties and alliances after all that’s happened this past year with the alpha pack.” Derek repeats what he said before word for word, not really clearing up any of Scott’s confusion. Derek had definitely improved as an alpha and Stiles was very proud of his progress, but his people skills and diplomacy were rusty.

 

“The alphas want to be big boys and girls and make it so that their packs can play nice so next time the shit storm arrives we don’t get wiped out because we’re too stubborn to help each other.” Stiles looked to the alpha to make sure he was hitting all the right points. This time he couldn’t suppress the eye roll but he nodded without verbal complaint.

 

“I don’t see why you need to use the phrase ‘ shit storm ’,” Kira tells him, waving around the hand she has laced with Scott’s while they take up one half of the couch, “it’s just gross.”

 

“Well, ‘shit hits the fan’ doesn’t quite encompass exactly how fucked we were.” Erica pipes up from where she and Boyd have managed to curl up (how was that comfortable?) on the recliner Derek had bought at a charity auction. ( “So, he does have a heart!” “It’s a comfortable chair, Stiles.” “One that smells like dust and old people even to my human nose.” “Shut up, Stiles.” )

 

Isaac hums his approval from the floor where he leans against Erica’s legs.

 

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t a gross and unnecessary turn of phrase.” Lydia says from her perch on Jackson’s lap on the other half of the couch. He has his arm slung around her waist to keep her from falling, but no doubt Lydia would steadfastly refuse to admit it’s helpful.

 

“It really isn’t a necessary image.” Allison voices from where she has her head on Isaac’s lap. Yes, because that looks entirely platonic for the two who have more sexual tension than a porno, Stiles huffs in his inner monologue. The idiots needed to get their heads out of their asses, but Stiles was sworn to secrecy by both so here he would remain, a silent onlooker. God, it was frustrating.

 

“Can we get back to the meeting now?” Stiles could tell Derek was holding back a growl while rubbing at his temple, but this was an improvement. The alpha was making progress from an authoritarian dictator to more like a monarchy with a cabinet. It was a slow and sometimes painful process for everyone involved, but it was a step in the right direction.

 

“So, are you gonna go?” Erica asks.

 

“Yep.” Stiles pops the ‘p’ in a way that he knows Derek hates. Sue him, he can’t be Mr. Nice-Stiles all the time. “It’s just a few hours north and should only be a couple weeks and my dad already said yes. Well, he said ‘you’re eighteen, magic, and in a werewolf pack, can I really stop you?’. So, same difference, really.”

 

“You said your father was okay with this.” Derek turned to look where Stiles stood behind him, leaning in the kitchen doorway, giving him the alpha stink eye. Well, it was more the you-should-tread-carefully-I-am-the-alpha and usually involved downcast eyes from whichever beta received it.

 

“No, I said he agreed. Never said he was enthusiastic.” Stiles crossed his arms and smiled cheekily.

 

“Wait, you’re going, too?” Isaac addresses what he and Derek weren’t willing to say outright.

 

“The conference is for alphas and their emissaries, yes.” Derek explains, daring for questions. A dare Scott takes to heart.

 

“Does that mean you’re taking Stiles as your emissary?” Scott’s voice is even and on the verge of challenging. This had been a hot-button topic since they had discovered Stiles’ druid roots and the capabilities that came with such a lineage. He had been doing training with Deaton and often came home a little worse for wear and exhausted beyond belief. Once Scott had found him with a bloody nose after trying to perform a rather draining incantation and had freaked, then tried to convince him to stop.

 

“It’s dangerous!” He had fought.

 

“It’s more dangerous if I’m not trained.” The argument lasted for days, each of them firm in their stance. At least until Stiles got his first tattoo. It was a celtic rune that sat on his hip, Deaton had applied it in a painful process that took hours but Stiles went home feeling more grounded than he had since they had begun. Deaton had explained its significance.

 

“It’s a binding spell, you’ve accepted your duty as a druid and an eventual emissary. It allows your magic to settle in you and tie itself to your will.” Scott had come to visit the day after and just sort of stared at him.

 

“You’re different.” He said, cocking his head to the side in that way that invited so many dog jokes, but Stiles knew this was an important moment. Scott had to understand.

 

“How?” He prompted, attempting to encourage Scott to work through how this felt.

 

“It’s like, you’ve … anchored.” He tried. From that point, Scott dropped the argument, understanding what Stiles needed to do.

 

Now he had more tattoos, more runes and symbols that weaved across his body and channeled his magic into something solid and tangible. They crawled up his sides and laced over his shoulders and down his back. Many of them remained unseen until called upon, but the one on his hip rested in thick black ink on his skin.

 

As much as Scott understood the importance of his training and position, he was still very protective of his best friend and his well being. Keeping an eye out for any dangers that may come. And currently that included Derek.

 

“I haven’t claimed him.” Derek told the group as a whole, but held eye contact with Scott. The feeling of magic stirring unhappily under his skin snapped him from his thoughts. Deaton had also explained that in his typical annoyingly vague way. It was always like pulling teeth with the man.

 

_ “A druid’s purpose is to maintain balance. Since you run with wolves, you have become out of balance.” _

 

_ “Why am I out of balance?” _

 

_ “Wolves without an emissary are naturally turbulent because their instincts are wild. Subconsciously, you’ve been balancing them, but you aren’t tied to the pack so you aren’t getting a balance in return.” _

 

_ “So, they’re bleeding me dry. Always knew they were parasites.” Stiles smiled dryly. _

 

_ “You’ll need to attach yourself to an alpha soon. There are risks for an unbalanced druid.” _

 

_ “Like?” _

 

_ “Well, a disruption in balance may show itself in several ways. It’s a disruption in nature, so nature will twist and alter in an attempt to right itself.” _

 

_ “What does that mean?” Stiles was getting anxious. The vet was avoiding giving direct answers and that never meant anything good. _

 

_ “You’re magic is heavily entwined with your will, and your will is parallel to your mind.” _

 

_ “I’ll go insane.” _

 

“So, why does Stiles have to go? It wouldn’t be safe.” Scott’s eyebrows are still pressed close and the usual puppy-like aloofness is gone. This snaps Stiles back to the present and out of Deaton’s office, but the knowledge still sits at the back of his mind, nagging at his every thought.

 

“It will be fine, no one will know he’s unclaimed.” Stiles can see the way the line of Derek’s shoulders tense while the pack continues to question him.

 

“That implies there would be danger if anyone found out.” Lydia oh so helpfully points out.

 

“Wait, why is it dangerous?” Isaac actually raises his hand to get their attention and Stiles might have cooed at the pack’s youngest if he wasn’t concentrating so hard on keeping his chemo signals in check. Derek turned to look at him, eyebrows saying ‘speak up’ and if you were fluent in Derek you would know that meant ‘please take care of this, I’m stressed’.

 

“Unclaimed means I’m up for grabs.” Stiles shrugs, trying to downplay the meaning of his words. 

 

Scott blanches and the rest of the pack looked two seconds away from chaos. Stiles wants to bask in the feeling of being wanted to the point of going up in arms to keep him, having always struggled with whether or not the pack really wanted him. But, now was not the time to preen. 

 

“But don’t worry, we have a plan!” Stiles tries to placate, holding out his palms in a hopefully calming gesture.

 

“We just have to make him seem claimed.” Jackson says and everyone looks at him, “What? Fake it ‘til you make it, right? That’s how this pack usually does it.” Lydia smacks his arm.

 

“He’s right, that’s the plan.” Lydia turns to look at him with one eyebrow raised skeptically. Since coming to the decision that Lydia was best kept as a friend, Stiles had found her to be an amazing one. They worked off of one another until they were running circles around their werewolf friends. Now, they were able to read each other because they seemed to operate on the same nerdy wavelength.

 

“We’re going to make it looks like Stiles is in the process of being claimed. Scent marking and a token trade should be enough.” Derek explains.

 

“Should?” Allison asks, worry lacing her voice.

 

“ _ Will _ . It  _ will  _ be enough.” Stiles soothes, and if he happens to also release a little of the calming aura Deaton had taught him last week, well, no one will know but him.

 

“We’re going to finish a few things with Deaton and leave this weekend.”

 

“And you didn’t think to tell us until now?” Erica snipes. This time, Derek does release a growl that makes Erica curl her shoulders inwards just a bit. The betas may have accepted Derek as their alpha, but there were still times of insubordination that they let slip and Derek wouldn’t tolerate.

 

“The information wasn’t presented to us until recently and we didn’t have a real, solid plan until yesterday. We wanted to be sure of more details before we told the pack.” Stiles explains, not being soft as to take Erica’s side in the skirmish of power, but not looking to Derek for permission. He was a neutral ground. Like Sweden. Everybody loves Sweden.

 

“Well, I guess Derek should go pack all of his four outfits.” Boyd smiled with a glint in his eye and somehow, everyone laughed. Even Derek roughed up the short hair on his beta’s head as he walked past him and into the kitchen, meeting over.

 

“You shouldn’t have to do this.” Scott pulled Stiles aside by his shoulders while everyone started to make their way to the kitchen where Derek had put in a lasagna earlier. The worry in Scott’s eyes was amplified by his use of puppy eyes, wide and concerned.

 

“He’s not making me, I want to go.” Stiles told him, smiling and hoping to banish the crease between his brows. It was the one that matched his father’s when Stiles managed to get mixed up in any sort of mess.

 

“It’s dangerous.”

 

“I run with wolves, Scott, I’m never really going to be safe.” Obviously that wasn’t the right thing to say so he backtracked and tried again, “But at least when I go I’ll be helping Mr. Grumpy ensure we never end up in such a shit situation ever again.” 

 

With that, Stiles claps his best friend’s arm and heads for the honestly incredible smell of lasagna. All the betas and humans sat at the extra long dining table Derek had gotten after Lydia’s nagging about having to balance food on the couch, with plates mounded in noodles and meaty red sauce.

 

“You’re lucky Derek saves you some, or you’d starve every time we eat at meetings.” Isaac says after swallowing an ungodly amount of italian food.

 

“Can’t let Mom starve,” Erica quips before Stiles can, “but why do we call him mom when Derek’s the one who cooks?”

 

“Excuse me, ingrates, all you saw was Derek put it in the oven. I’m the one who made it. It’s not my fault I’m not allowed to touch the oven.” Stiles snarks, shooting Derek a look of disapproval while scooping up the plate that’s pushed towards him across the counter. Derek doesn’t acknowledge the comment, so Stiles doesn’t offer a thank you. Call him petty, you might be right.

 

“You should have seen him when Stiles was cutting the noodles.” Allison laughs, “He went white.” Allison presses her lips together when Derek huffs but doesn’t retract her statement when everyone laughs.

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Stiles starts up, mouth still half full of lasagna, “why am I called ‘mom’?” He shakes his head, looking between the betas with narrowing eyes.

 

“You brought me chicken noodle and veggie soup when I was sick.” Kira says, smiling wide.

 

“And you helped me and Boyd get our head out of our asses when I thought he made a sexist comment.” Erica offers with a shrug. Oh yeah, that had been an ordeal. Erica was very found of her new woman power as a werewolf and took like a fish to water the phrase “I can do whatever a boy can while in heels”. It was awe inspiring, honestly.

 

“You wouldn’t let me leave this house unless I put on a jacket the last time it rained.” Isaac piped up.

 

“You mean downpoured .” Allison chastised, before adding, “And you carry tampons and aspirin in case any of us girls get surprised one month.” Hey, Stiles had once witnessed what happened when a girl wasn’t prepared and that shit was scary and scarring.

 

“And you’re Derek’s bi-”

 

“Enough.” The Alpha Tone rang throughout the room, silencing whatever Jackson was going to add.

 

“You are kind of a mom, Stiles.” Scott shrugged. Sometimes, Stiles thought he did that just to be a little shit and dupe Derek’s authority, blatant disregard for the alpha’s order. But sometimes, in times like these, it was more like Scott was finalizing the moment. Derek sometimes cut them off, so Scott made a closing statement so they could more easily move on. It was pretty genius.

 

“He’d have to trade that god awful Jeep for a minivan.” Derek rumbled, still coming down from the Alpha voice. That got Stiles back in operation.

 

“I will never get rid of that Jeep, you hear me, Sourwolf. I will go before it does.” Stiles turns to poke the Alpha in his solid as brick chest. And that’s how the night continues. More banter and food and Stiles accepting he just adopted a rag-tag litter of wayward puppies.


	2. Scent Marking Is Grosser Than You Think

“Welcome back, boys. Let’s get started, shall we?” Deaton leads Stiles and Derek to the back room and sits them down at their usual table midst the stacks of different veterinary supplies. He and Derek had been doing training with Deaton for a few months now, following somewhat of the same timeline as Stiles discovery and harnessing his emissary capabilities.

 

It had been a surprise for everyone. Well, everyone except Deaton because of course Deaton knew and just never told them because it wasn’t particularly necessary at the time. No, not until Stiles had used the fucking Force to throw someone off of Scott who was an inch from having his throat slit, had Deaton decided to let them in on the secret. Apparently Stiles had some great aunt, twice removed that had Celtic heritage and had passed on the joys of being a Druid. But now since unleashing this hidden talent he was subjected to these long hours of re-leashing said abilities.

 

And on top of it all, Scott had handed over his Alpha status. What? Yeah, like, really? Scott had made the big boy decision and decided the hand the torch over to Derek, deciding he would rather the pack be lead with someone older (even if only by a little) and with experience. Especially when he’s just trying to make it through high school and hopefully get into a good vet school. Scott had a future to think about, even when every new Monster of the Week made it incredibly difficult to think past the end of the month. 

 

Giving the Alpha status back to Derek had been his best option, one that didn’t get overlooked by the (slightly) older werewolf. There had been a whole moonlit ceremony and Deaton hovering around them chanting in latin, really epic stuff with a glowing ball of light and all that jazz. But now, Derek was the alpha and his first order of business? No be shit at it. So, here they were three times a week for an hour or two depending on their progress (and Deaton’s patience).

 

Sometimes, Deaton would thunk large volumes in front of them and have them simply read for the hours they would be there. Other times he would send Stiles away to memorize different herbs while he worked with Derek on his Alpha things and such. Other times, Derek would be sent to study old treaties and monster histories while Deaton led Stiles through control exercises or taught him new spellwork.

 

“What’s on the agenda today, doc?” Stiles rubbed his hands together with a  goofy grin until Derek cuffed him on the back of the head earning him a glare.

 

“Well, the conference is in a week, we need to start the alpha-emissary bonding.”

 

“Is this going to involve friendship bracelets, because I am the king of fish tail.” Stiles said, brushing his fingers across his chest and blowing on them. “Lydia taught me so I could help her do her hair. Do you know how hard it is to keep track of all those strands, hones- ”

 

“We just need to make it look like a forming bond.” Derek says, not turning from where he’s looking at something in a jar on one of Deaton’s shelves, it looked like a frog. Gross.

 

“You aren’t actually bonding?” Deaton shot Stiles a look and Stiles knew exactly what he meant. He could practically hear the silent conversation between them.

 

_ “Stiles.” _

 

_  “Yes, doc?” _

 

_  “Why aren’t you bonding with a perfectly acceptable alpha?” _

 

_  “Well, you see, he doesn’t approve of me keeping the maple syrup in the fridge, the weirdo keeps it in the cupboard and -” _

 

_  “Stiles.” _

 

_  “He won’t want to and I’m not going to push it.” _

 

_  “It’s dangerous.” _

 

_  “...” _

 

_  “You haven’t told him the consequences of you not bonding to a pack.” _

 

_  “Have you met the guy? He’s martyr extraordinaire. He’d pity-bond me and then we’d both be miserable.” _

 

_  “I think you’re ignoring how much bonding the two of you have already done.” _

 

Okay, so that last part Stiles has no idea where it came from and he isn’t willing to examine his subconscious any closer, but that would be the gist of the discussion.

 

“No.” Derek, eloquent as ever, responds to the vet.

 

“Alright.” Deaton looks between the two of them, especially at Stiles before he seems to give in, “Well, it will take some work, but we can possibly pull this off.”

 

“Whatta we got to do?” Stiles asked, jumping up to sit on the examination table that he’s come to know too well for all the wrong reasons, swinging his legs back and forth over the edge. Bringing a puppy in for examination would be much more pleasant than all the blood/black goop/other such nastiness he’s seen spill here.

 

“When an alpha and an emissary want to bond, they are accepting one another in new ways. Ways that the rest of the pack won’t necessarily understand because of their lower position in the pack. It will be hard to imitate.”  The vet is sure to catch both boys eye as he makes the statement.

 

“We understand the risks.” Derek says in a voice that leaves no room for doubt.

 

“The first step in the process is scent. Derek needs to make a claim over Stiles, one that other weres will respect.”

 

“So swap some sweaty gym clothes, easy.”

 

“Not quite, Mr. Stilinski. I believe you are aware of chemo-signals?”

 

“Yeah, when a scent gives an idea of what the person may be feeling.” Stiles whirls his hand around like he’s trying to hurry the vet up, which Deaton pointedly ignores. Stiles has never appreciated the pack’s ability to encroach on his personal feelings bubble with a little whiff and wasn’t to keen on reminding himself of his lack of privacy.

 

“The same goes for when Derek scent marks. The scent he leaves has to match that of someone who wants to form a bond.”

 

“Well, that’s restricting.” Stiles scoffed.

 

“I’m sure Mr. Hale won’t have too much of an issue.” Stiles turns to the werewolf in question but Derek’s face is a mask of indifference and Stiles huffs knowing he’s missing something.

 

“Alright, so scent marking, then what?”

 

“Tokens.” Derek grunts, moving to the side to lean against the far wall, arms crossed.

 

“Correct, you need to trade tokens. And no, Mr. Stilinski, it can’t be just anything.” Stiles’ jaw snaps shut and he spins to glare daggers at Derek when he hears him snort. “The token must be a representation of yourself, you are giving yourself over to the other and trusting them to keep it safe. Keep you safe.”

 

“It’ll be a little hard to rip off your tattoo, eh Sourwolf?” Stiles smirks and gets yet another cuff to the head for his efforts.

 

“Is there anything else we should do? This doesn’t seem like a lot.” Derek asks Deaton and Lord almighty, is Derek actually asking for help with his own mouth? Good thing Stiles is sitting or he would have hit the floor in shock.

 

“It should be enough. There are other things you could do, but it would be asking a lot of you both, considering you aren’t actually looking to bond.”

 

“And in case we need it?”

 

“A bite.” Stiles feels himself stiffen and his teeth grind from being so tightly clenched so suddenly. “Not like you’re thinking, it wouldn’t turn you, but be another symbol of claim like the scent marking. Only this would be more thwarting to others who may wish to encroach on the feeble link. The bite would leave a mark that would deter others, especially if left in an easily visible location.”

 

“The mark would eventually fade?” Derek asks all while brushing his shoulder against Stiles in a way that was very new for them. They had never been very tactile with one another, more hostile banter and lots of bodily throwing and no so fun manhandling, but as the pack grew they also craved touch. A pack naturally wanted to spread its scent to every member in comfort and reminder of belonging.

 

Stiles always though he may as well just sit to the side while everyone got their fill, so you can imagine his heart attack when a thumb reached out to brush his cheek one day after a meeting. It had been Isaac, a sheepish look on his face when Stiles startled but not taking back the gesture until he deemed Stiles sufficiently marked. It was all a blur from there as hands ran through his hair or fingers across his arm and more across his shoulders. But nothing got to him like Derek very deliberately brushing his knuckles across the side of his neck.

 

“Yes, nothing to prevent everyone from returning to their previous course.” Deaton nodded, sending Stiles another pointed look. He rolled his eyes, lucky that Derek wasn’t looking.

 

“Thank you, Dr. Deaton.” Derek nodded and then left, not even waiting for Stiles.

 

“See ya, Doc!” He called over his shoulder while chasing after his socially inept Alpha.

 

*** 

 

“Soooo,” Stiles drawls out the ‘o’ as the pair walk through the front door of Derek’s house. Derek turns to look at him over his shoulder, but doesn’t bother to fill in the blank that Stiles has left. “You’re not gonna help me out here?” He asks, a little hopeful, but mostly knowing he’s going to be left out to dry.

 

“Help with what, Stiles?” Derek hangs up his leather jacket on a coat rack Boyd had carved in woodshop a few weeks back. The man had skills and had been helping Derek in planning to furnish the Hale house. Stiles stills likes to stop and marvel at the delicate carvings Boyd has entwined with the wood, it was truly beautiful. Derek continues to make his way to the living room where he drops onto the couch with a heavy thunk.

 

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Stiles grouches as he drops down on the other end, crossing his arms and pouting like a child.

 

“At one point, everyone is just an asshole while a fetus.” Derek offers lightly while grabbing for a book he’s left out on the coffee table. Of course, all it had taken was one joking comment from Stiles and the reading glasses made an appearance in the kitchen trash can the very next day. Pity, too, Derek had actually looked great. (“But Derek, you’re a werewolf with super eyes.” “I can’t exactly flash my eyes when I want to read in the park.” “You read in the park?” “Shut up, Stiles.”)

 

“Ooh, the alpha has jokes. That stopped being surprising a while ago.” Stiles states bitterly, not willing to fall into the trap.

 

“You snorted milk last week.” He opens the book to where he has it bookmarked, holding the book closer than the average person because even after apologizing profusely, Derek refused to buy new glasses.

 

“You made a dick joke! You can’t make a dick joke and not expect me to inhale the milk I was trying to drink in peace!” Stiles cries, throwing his arms into the air. The motion accidentally sends little sparks of lightning flinging out and into the air, charging it with static. Stiles curses under his breath while he gets the inevitable out of the way by discharging the energy on the closest doorknob. Magic was fun, but Stiles was kind of a spaz and that often meant accidents.

 

“Ah yes, I forgot I have a 12 year old boy in my pack.” Derek scoffs, turning a page. How Derek manages to multitask like that, the world may never know, but Stiles was curious as Hell.

 

“I’ll have you know, I am a perfectly legal adult as of three months ago.” He huffed petulantly.

 

“Yes, Stiles, I was at the party. God help us.”

 

“Offensive!”

 

“Too bad.” They fall into silence while Stiles pouts at the wall and Derek continues to read his book. But the longer it drags on the less and less Stiles keeps his body in control. Namely his knees that bounce like a pogo stick and his fingers that tap his biceps and his torso in general while he tries to get comfortable. “I swear to God Stiles, if you don’t stop fidgeting I will tear off your limbs so there’s nothing to fidget. ” He growls.

 

“I’m anxious, okay. We’re leaving for the conference in a few days and we have to make it look like we’re trying to bond and what is with the supernatural and bonding? Like, you all just need some buddies, like cuddle buddies and just like bros in general-”

 

“Stiles.”

 

“I know being lonely sucks, I have been a part of that club long enough to be an expert, but this shit seems so required for living with you guys-”

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Like nothing is casual with you guys. And now we have to fake that and stuff so we have to smell like each other and trade tokens? What constitutes as a token? Could I gi-”

 

“Stiles!” Stiles snaps his head around so quick, he could hear his neck crack at the speed. He cringes internally but looks at Derek with wide eyes. “We’re going to be fine. Now, come here.” Derek lifts one of his arms and beckons him over with his hand.

 

“What?” Stiles has a 5.0 GPA thanks to taking as many advanced placement and honors classes as offered at his school. He is in the runnings for valedictorian. He is second only to Lydia Martin. He has been approached by several universities. But, for all those smarts, he has no idea what Derek is asking of him.

 

“I said. Come. Here.” Derek grounds out in a patient voice that also doubles as a growl meaning he isn’t really being all that patient.

 

“Oh.” He squeaks (he won’t even deny it at this point), and scrambles over to Derek’s side. He’s left a few inches between them, still unsure of what is being aske- no, demanded of him. Derek just huffs impatiently before tugging Stiles down and against him until they’re pressed close like Erica and Boyd on pack movie night. “Wha-”

 

“Scent marking.”

 

“Oh, okay.” Stiles acquiesces. Nodding while he shifts minutely into a more comfortable position. His head is kept cradled by the meat between Derek’s arm and shoulder, creating a pleasant pillow. His bony shoulder dips under Derek’s arm and fits snug in the space provided. Stiles’ hand feels awkward in his lap so fuck it he throws his arm over Derek’s waist. He’s surprised to find that his snuggle partner doesn’t tense up even a little.

 

“Just, sit still.” Derek’s breath fans over his hair and down his nape and Stiles curls into the position more. It’s weird how not weird it is, but Stiles isn’t willing to give up the comfort for a little feeeelings panic, so he ignores it in favor of letting his muscles loosen.

 

He lifts his hands enough so it’s within his view and not caught up against Derek’s shirt (oddly enough, not a henley) and begins to twist his fingers around. In his palm, a ray of sun has filtered through a window and spread itself out. As Stiles curls and bends his fingers he concentrates enough that the sunlight itself twists and weaves to his manipulation. When he’s finished a butterfly sits in his palm, made purely of sunshine and he smiles before blowing on it and it scatters like a dandelion wish. They sit in blissful silence until Stiles’ brain reminds him of a rather odd piece of trivia breaking his relative peace.

 

“You’re using your armpit pheromones to mark me!” He screeched, flailing when his mind goes from zero to sixty in less than a second. Derek simply sighs like an overworked parent before squeezing the arm he has tossed around his shoulders.

 

“You are impossible.”

 

“You’re gross!”

 

“This was the less … invasive option.” Derek explains calmly while Stiles continues fruitlessly to release himself.

 

“That doesn’t change the fact that this is gross.” Stiles’ voice is still a little too high for a guy who was suppose to be finished with puberty by now. He’s still squirming, twisting and turning in Derek’s grip when he hears the growl. Derek’s book is down and Stiles is pinned on his back to the couch faster than he can ask ‘what?’ for the third time.

 

“Would you rather I do this?” Derek doesn’t give Stiles a chance to ask ‘do what’, just dives down until his nose in buried in Stiles’ neck, sniffing and breathing. He takes deep inhales, running his nose along the tendon he finds there. Stiles holds his breath while Derek takes greedy lungfuls, before switching sides and repeating the process. This times he also rubs his stubbly cheek across the skin, irritating it and sure to leave a burn. Derek comes back up after a while and stares down at Stiles expectantly, it takes him a long moment to realize he’s expected to answer a question.

 

“Uh, yeah, pit cuddling is cool. Necks are a little awkward I guess.” He chokes out the words and hopes to solidify them with a nod. Derek merely huffs and climbs off before getting completely up off the couch.

 

“Go home and sleep. Pack tomorrow morning. I want to leave no later than 5 so we can check in a hotel and scope out the area a little. Being in close quarters should help the scent thing too.” Without another word, Derek heads up stairs, presumably to bed. Leaving Stiles on his couch, dazed and confused and awkwardly turned on. He knows without looking that his hair his at least somewhat statically charged and probably a mess.

 

_ Fuck _


	3. Foot In Mouth Syndrome

“Stiles, Derek’s here!” Stiles hears his dad call from downstairs where he’s probably just answered the door for the alpha.

 

“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.” He answers in normal volume, knowing Derek will hear him and relay the message for him. He was still rushing around his room, tossing last minute things into his bag. He had woken up late and then watched a few (*read - seven) episodes of X-Files and didn’t snap back to reality until it was a quarter to five and he made a mad scrabble to get all his things together.He ran down the stairs, jumping the last two before skidding to a halt in the front room where his father and Derek shared an exasperated look of understanding.

 

“You know, it gives me the creeps when you guys have your silent conversations.” He says while shrugging on his red hoodie. It was a must have for a werewolf conference.

 

“Don’t worry kid, we’ll only do it when you’re around.” His father laughed and even Derek smirked before the look of indifference came back and he looked at Stiles.

 

“Are you ready?” He asked, eyeing the duffle bag in Stiles’ hand. It did look a little weak for a one to two week trip, but Stiles wasn’t picky about wearing clothes already worn once.

 

“Yeppers peppers. So, whatcha got for me?” Stiles rubbed his hands together with his best attempt at a greedy grin like from those old mob movies. Stiles learned not too long ago that this move was something Derek found obnoxious, so Stiles used it whenever the opportunity presented itself. Derek rolled his eyes before grabbing for something in his pocket. It was a wallet. Well worn and soft leather, stitched in a way that was sure to last for many more years to come. Inside was a single photo of Derek, obviously from before the fire, smile big and bright, in a basketball uniform, young and happy. It made Stiles heart ache just a little bit.

 

“This is my token for you.” Deaton had told them to repeat the words for supernatural purposes, “Guard me as your own.”

 

“Uh, yeah. I mean, yes, I will.” Stiles tucks the wallet in his pocket before holding out his token. His dad’s eyes go wide but doesn’t comment from his spot behind Derek.

 

“You’re Jeep’s keys?” Derek’s face scrunches and then he looks at him with a look that Stiles has translated as this-is-serious-don’t-fuck-around. One of his more common glares directed at Stiles.

 

“Yes, that Jeep means the world to me.” The statement was suppose to be more snappish, but it came off a little too soft to do so. Derek gives him a strange look but accepts the keys anyways, “This is my token for you. Guard me as your own.” Stiles repeats without eye contact.

 

“I will.”

 

“Alright,” His dad claps to snap them out of the growing more and more awkward moment. Real smooth there, padre, ”Let’s get this show on the road shall we. Call me as often as you can and don’t hesitate to come home if things get too dangerous. Extra cash in the ziploc in the end pocket of your bag and don’t forget your meds.” With that, Stiles’ dad sends them on their way, waving as Derek pulls out of the driveway with them both in the Camaro. They drive for less than five minutes before the first death threat is issued.

 

“I swear Stiles, if you change the radio station one more time -”

 

“But it’s all commercials and Mozart! I don’t care about Vista Ford’s new financing options, I want music damnit!” He throws up his hands in exasperation just to go right back to where they were on the stereo controls.

 

“For the love of- didn’t you bring CDs or something?” Derek swats at Stiles’ long fingers which are making a valiant attempt at dodging werewolf reflexes to continue his search.

 

“CDs? Really, Derek? What decade are you even in?” Stiles shoots him a confused look as if he’s actually questioning Derek’s sanity, he simply rolls his eyes in response.

 

“They still make CDs meaning they are still considered relevant.”

 

“They still make new episodes of that soap opera in channel eighteen, doesn’t mean they should.”

 

“And how do you know they’re new?” Derek smirks, taking his eyes off the road long enough to watch Stiles gap like a fish, looking for a response that will save his dignity.

 

“Where’s your auxiliary cord, asshole?” He finally huffs in defeat.

 

“Don’t have one.”

 

“What?” He squawks, flailing his arms like a deranged octopus. Derek just shrugs with a grunt. “We have to stop somewhere.”

 

“We aren’t stopping.”

 

“It’ll be quick, like five minutes tops.”

 

“No.”

 

“You do realize you are willingly subjecting yourself to me trying to fill the silence for the next several hours.” Ten minutes later, with plenty of growling and gruff threats, Stiles is scrolling through his various playlists after having plugged in the shiny new aux cord.

 

The rest of the five hour drive was spent in peace. Well, as much peace as he and Derek could manage being in a car for so long together. Apparently Stiles had too small of a bladder in Derek’s opinion and burgers weren’t good enough for lunch and dinner so here they were at a small taco shack just a couple miles away from their hotel.

 

“So, how is all of this going to work?” He asked around a mouthful of some seriously amazing taco.

 

“Well,” Derek swallowed and Stiles forced himself to look at Derek’s face and not the bob of his throat, “we crossed into the neutral territory a few miles back.”

 

“Yeah, I felt it, like passing through a waterfall or something.” Derek nods, pushing some lettuce back into his taco shell.

 

“The druids are trying to be hospitable and made sure each of the alphas was given a different hotel, all placed at least a couple miles apart.”

 

“An illusion of territory.” Stiles snorts, he always found werewolf politics amusing, all about “mine” and threats of violence if encroached upon. He’s forcefully yanked from his thoughts with a cuff to the back of the head. “Watch it, buddy, with the super strength. Fragile human to accommodate.”

 

“This isn’t a joke, Stiles. You’re an emissary, you have to take this seriously.” Derek frowned down at what was left of his tacos, the pinched worry lines around the edges of his eyes. “They have to believe you’re my emissary and to do that you have to actually act like one.” He grouches.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stiles asks flippantly, not meeting Derek’s eyes in favor of playing with the condensation that’s dripped around his half-Coke half-root beer. He knows what Derek is hinting at, what he’s implying and Stiles doesn’t want to hear it, but he needs to know. Needs to know if this is what Derek’s really thinking. The very thought is causing his magic to thrum at the very edges of him, his fingertips and toes.

 

“It means, ” Derek swats at where Stiles is drawing a flower with the condensed water on the table, “you have to at least act like you care about what’s going on.” Yep, there it is. And just because Stiles saw it coming, doesn’t mean the punch to the gut hurt any less.

 

“Way to tell me how you really feel.” Stiles bites out, his tone sharp and hostile as he pushes his plate away and clenches his fists in his lap. There are sparks dancing across his knuckles as his anger rises. He really wants to just breathe and let the anger go, maybe find a secluded spot later to just seriously fuck up whatever is within his reach with the energy he’s holding on to, but Derek has to go and open his mouth.

 

“Stiles -”

 

“Do you really think I care so little that I can’t take this seriously? Think that I would be that careless about my pack?” His gaze snaps up in search of Derek’s, the anger boiling under his skin making his fingers shake and his bones feel all weird and lose. Part of it’s the magic, curling in his veins and coming to life with the onslaught of emotion, some it is the anxiety and anger mixing in his stomach. But Derek’s eyes aren’t there to catch because he’s staring out the window next to them, watching as various cars drive past.

 

“No, Sti-”

 

“Obviously I’m too immature to research pack politics for days before coming and too much of a stupid teenager to go out of my way and spend even more hours with Deaton to make sure I don’t fuck this up. But apparently that isn’t enough.”

 

He’s seething, every one of his words a pointed thing that he intends to drill into the alpha across from him in well aimed attacks. He’s had enough of the same broken record coming from his mouth. What does he have to do to prove himself? He feels the way his finger cool down to an odd sort of chill that means they’re moments away from bursting into flame. Derek looks at him, obviously catching the scent of petrichor that seems to come out when Stiles’ magic does.

 

“I didn’t me-”

 

“What, Derek? What did you not mean? To imply that I don’t care about the pack? That I’m a teenager? Even if mentally I’m probably twenty something because all the shit I’ve been through? Or how about the fact that you’re suggesting that I’m doomed to fail this because I’m reckless and just too stupid?” Stiles would be boring holes into Derek’s face if it were physically possible, with the force of his glare. Maybe with his magic it is. This might be seen as an explosion of unnecessary emotion to some people, but this was a long time coming.

 

“Stiles.” That’s it, his entire response to Stiles little tirade and all he can come up with is his name. He was looking apologetic, well, as apologetic as Derek can look with just a little softening around the pressed line of his lips, eyebrows drawn not so close but still furrowed. But the apology look and the less-than-usual gruff uttering of his name wasn’t going to cut it this time, not with the line Derek just crossed. He takes deep, steadying breaths, willing his magic down and back into its little box in his chest, just like Deaton taught him.

 

“Let’s go.” Stiles doesn’t wait for Derek’s agreement, just stands up and leaves. He bypasses the counter where Derek stops to pay and the Camero beeps as it unlocks from Derek clicking the keychain inside. He slides into his seat and buckles before crossing his arms and steeling himself for the car ride he’s about to endure. Derek comes out and gets in silently, but while he drives he keeps sending Stiles these looks out of the corner of his eye.

 

“I swear to God, Derek, your eyebrows better shut the fuck up before I punch you in the face with wolfsbane laced brass knuckles.” Stiles snaps, his own knuckles go white and he’s sure to have at least red marks later on his biceps. The rest of the ride to the hotel is painfully quiet, Stiles doesn’t reach for his music or open his mouth and Derek has never been one to fill the gaps.

 

“So, two beds or one?” The attendant at the front desk asks politely when they go to check in.

 

“Tw-”

 

“One queen, please.” Stiles interjects, shooting Derek a look. Derek raises an eyebrow, obviously confused but unwilling to show it as confusion and rather passes it off as looking like he thinks Stiles may have lost his mind. But Stiles ignores him. They had discussed this before, let the lump of insensitive muscle figure it out for himself.

 

He takes the key from the woman and smiles as he tells her to have a good night. He turns sharply on his heel, leaving Derek to grab their luggage as Stiles makes for the elevator. He may be angry and anger brings out the pettiest parts of him but he was also a  _ big boy _ who took things  _ seriously _ and push past his emotions for the sake of his job as the pack’s emissary.

 

“So, we’re a little behind the curve when it comes to the sniff stuff.” Stiles drops down onto the bed with his back to Derek, tugging off his Converse.

 

“Yes.” Derek was being exceptionally helpful that day.

 

“So, won’t the other alphas notice?”

 

“Do you have a time-machine?”

 

“There has to be something we can do. Some way to make up for at least a little bit of the time?” Stiles asked, snappish and still angry but working to calm himself down slowly. He wasn’t going to mess this up on something as easy as scent. No, let’s leave that to his rather unsatisfying emissary skills.

 

“We should share space. Just, be close.” Derek waved his hand around a bit as if that explained his point.

 

“How? Isn’t the scenty-stuff supposed to be done with bonding intent?” Derek grunts in acknowledgement, both of them caught in the knowledge that neither of them were in a particularly bonding mood. They sit on opposite ends of the bed for a while while they stew in their own minds. 

 

Eventually, Stiles pulls out his laptop and gets comfortable at the head of the bed. He studiously ignores Derek’s gaze before he pulls a novel from his bed and settles in next to him, the inches between them feeling like a canyon.The tension slowly seeps out of the room as time passes.

 

“Don’t forget Pack Night is tomorrow at eight.” Derek tells him, after his phone had gone off. It was likely a text in the group chat 

 

“That’s it!” Derek startles a bit at the sudden outburst but simply raises a thick eyebrow. Stiles remembers how Lydia had wrangled him into allowing her to pluck them and his mood lightens. Derek was a good alpha, even if he made an ass of himself more often than not. “Puppy pile, Derek. We need a puppy pile.

 

_ What-the-hell-Stiles _ the eyebrows told him. He sighed, always having to explain his weird trains of thought. Luckily for everyone else, he often trimmed down from all of the thought trains he took to get there to just the logically necessary ones.

 

“On Pack Nights, you all tend to shift closer together until it’s a big pile and then you usually fall asleep while the movie is going. You spread your scent and bond while snoozin’.” Stiles smiles triumphantly, waiting for Derek to congratulate him. He’d be waiting a long time.

 

“You’re suggesting we sleep together?” Stiles face flames and he has a second to worry that his face is literally aflame but pushes it aside. 

 

“Well, yeah. Sleeping’s one way to spread our scents in a very bonding way.” Stiles can’t help the laugh he lets out as the very tips of Derek’s ears turn red when he realizes the mistake in his phrasing. “But yeah, I know we’re already sharing a bed but I guess we can’t be all ‘no homo’ and refuse to touch.”

 

“Alright.” Derek shrugged, but his ears were still pink and that made Stiles happy.

 

They get ready for bed in silence, the lack of noise feeling like a layer of tension. They eventually climb under the covers. Derek had explained earlier that they didn’t need to touch, as much as that would help the process it wasn't necessary. Well, with several hours wasted in anger, they had some catching up to do. Derek’s arm slowly comes over his waist and is about to settle around his stomach when Stiles speaks in a low voice.

 

“If you ever imply that I wouldn’t do any and everything for this pack, I will not hesitate to eviscerate you.” 

 

He isn’t sure how to describe that exact sound Derek makes, but it sounds suspiciously like a whine. It’s very small, probably from the farthest back part of his throat and hardly audible to Stiles’ human ears, but it’s enough.


	4. Pack Politics

“Welcome, Alpha Hale. And who is your emissary?” The druid, a woman with a binding tattoo, just like the one on Stiles’ hip, on her forearm. She was a kind looking woman, her hair pulled back loosely and in comfort clothing. All of it put together seemed to ease some of the tension in Stiles’ body.

 

“Stiles Stilinski.” He held out his hand palm out as if for a handshake, but instead of bringing it to waist height he raised it further to his eyes. The woman smiled, pleased with his adherence to custom, mirroring his pose and bringing their palms together. Their magics came to the surface, sparking and dancing around their combined hands for a few seconds before retreating.

 

“Gina Morgen.” She nods, separating herself. “Thank you for coming. The meetings will be held in our territory to ensure neutrality.” Derek nods and she motions for them to follow her. They walk in silence to the front doors of what looks to Stiles like a community center, but without the usual hustle and bustle of parents following their kids to ballet lessons or old people heading to their next water aerobics class.

 

“You’re using a glamour.” Stiles asked without really asking. He had studied these, they were a complicated kind of magic that Deaton had only shown him in small doses. It was a draining form of magic that took a very powerful druid to use, especially when you’re trying to hide something as big as a building.

 

“Yes, all of our sect work together to keep it up. Keeps out the prying eyes of the public.” She tells him over her shoulder.

 

“What do they see?” Derek asks, speaking for the first time all morning. Getting ready had been a quiet affair, the silence just as all consuming as the night before. Derek had leaned in a few extra inches and took a quick whiff of Stiles when they climbed out of bed, an action that earned him a steely glare. Normally a quip about personal space was involved but Derek simply nodded his assent and Stiles went about his way to get dressed. Apparently he passed the werewolf sniff test, even if the air was a bit cold between them.

 

“A worn down and closed off version of this.” Gina gestures the the building as they walk through the front doors, “Glamours also work with repelling those who are not wanted.”

 

“Like Harry Potter.” Stiles breathed, smiling a little. He couldn’t deny that he had been a little disappointed on his eleventh birthday to not find a Hogwarts letter.

 

“Yes, a lot like Harry Potter.” Gina smiled over her shoulder, pushing open double doors to an auditorium. 

 

Inside was a long oval-like table, almost like the ones in Stiles’ high school cafeteria. At each end where the oval tapered off there was what Stiles could tell was a druid. All around them were four pairs of what he could only guess were alphas and emissaries. There was one man who sat by himself, looming with his arms crossed. It unsettled Stiles more than all the other alphas combined. This man was the reason Stiles couldn’t mess up, why it was so important that he and Derek make this believable.

 

_ “Why are emissaries so important?” Stiles had asked, towing after Deaton while he shuffled through his various shelves in search of a particular herb. _

 

_ “Well, alphas aren’t necessarily required to have an emissary.” Deaton held up a glass vial containing a few dried leaves in triumph. _

 

_ “Are we like, limited edition or something?” Stiles had asked, scrunching his face in distaste. _

 

_ “Not quite. Alphas without an emissary tend to be smaller pack-wise with a limited territory. An emissary is usually brought in when an alpha needs help.” _

 

_ “Isn’t that admitting weakness?” _

 

_ “Not to werewolves in that sense. It’s a sign of power because you’re large enough to warrant an emissary and it’s seen as sound leadership when you take in the company of wise counsel.” They were back at Deaton’s desk, where Stiles is handed the leaves and a stone grinder. _

 

_ “So, it’s a status symbol.” _

 

_ “Almost, but it’s more than that. A pack with an emissary is inherently more powerful because of the balance they bring.” _

 

_ “We’re a werewolf steroid.” Stiles intones flatly, leveling Deaton with a dry look. _

 

_ “If that’s what is easiest for you to understand, than yes. A werewolf steroid.” _

 

“Thank you for joining us, Hale pack.” One of the druids stood, a man with greying hair at his temples and well worn features. Soft grey blues eyes that reminded Stiles of his dad.

 

“Our pleasure.” Derek nodded, heading for an empty spot at the table as Stiles walked just half a step behind him. 

 

It was a werewolf custom that the emissary walk behind the alpha when in the presence of others. They were a team, but werewolf dynamics demanded a sign of respect be shown by Stiles to ensure the other alphas took the cue.  Looking around the table, Stiles makes an observation that causes his heart to plummet - Derek is the youngest alpha here by at least five years. Stiles age gap ranges from anywhere between seven and ten years compared to his emissary counterparts. Before the discussions even begin they’re set behind the curve as the youngest people here.

 

Over the next few hours, the alphas and emissaries introduce themselves and describe the limits of their territories. 

 

The Quddus pack is lead by Sonali, a small Indian woman with deep smile lines and wisps of dark hair falling from the loose bun atop her head. Her emissary is a similarly small woman named Athena who wears a pantsuit, contrasting her alpha’s soft sweater. 

 

The Barnett pack is led by William, a man who is well into his years, wearing a tweed jacket that reminds Stiles of a homely professor. His emissary, Jada, is a feisty redhead who plays with some sparks in her palm until she’s given a reprimanding look. She seems far too young to be his emissary, seeing as all the other pairs are at least within a decade of each other. Stiles doesn’t want to think about what circumstance may have caused that. 

 

The Chavez pack was lead by Faith, a severe looking woman who could easily out glare Athena without an issue, may even rival Derek and his glower. Her eyes were dark and she spoke with a heavy Spanish accent making Stiles think that English probably wasn’t her first language. Her emissary was a similarly intimidating man named Josiah, who only spoke to give his name and nothing else. 

 

The lone alpha was here to represent the Warren pack, a man named Jonathan and Stiles was sure to hold eye contact when his gaze lingered on him. He was to submit to no one but Derek.

 

“I am the alpha of the Hale pack, Derek Hale,” Derek stands, just like those before him, to announce to the table. “And this is my emissary.” Stiles waits for his name, but it never comes so he looks up to Derek in confusion who lifts his eyebrow in exasperation and expectation.

 

“Oh, Stiles. His emissary, Stiles Stilinski.” Stiles tells the table, keeping his hands in his lap to hide the way they shake.

 

“You’re Talia’s child.” Sonali speaks up from across the table, looking at Derek with a small tilt of her head.

 

“Yes, I am.” Derek confirms, stiffening where he stood, holding the woman’s gaze. Stiles may still be righteously pissed at the man, but he’s not willing to leave his alpha to flounder. He reaches his hand out, under the cover of the table, pressing a gentle palm to his knee. He wasn’t alone, they were a team. He felt him relax minutely.

 

“That is a large name to live up to, she would be proud to see you here.” Sonali smiles softly.

 

“Thank you, Alpha Quddus.” Derek returned to his seat, careful not to dislodge Stiles’ hand.

 

“And thank you all for coming.” The druid at the head of the table stands, hands clasped behind his back, “My name is Benjamin and I will be facilitating the discussion along with my right hand, Gina.” He gestures to Gina who had taken up the other end of the table. “Shall we begin?”

 

And that is what begins the next five hours of pointless negotiation. See, the talks are not pointless in their purpose, but in their execution.

 

“I own Calleguas creek.” Alpha Quddus stands to make her point heard, as if her stern voice and the look of a mother not to be messed with wasn’t enough.

 

“That creek flows through my lands and feed into the valley that has been in my family for generations.” Alpha Warren growled.

 

“You’re both right.” Benjamin speaks up, his voice calm and quiet but it somehow cuts through the growing chaos. Stiles feels the ripple run through him, like a pebble hitting water, the feeling of magic being used. Benjamin must be using some sort of enchantment on his voice to ensure the alphas allowed him room to speak. Stiles will have to ask him about that later.

 

“No, the creek is on my side of t-”

 

“The lines change, Alpha Warren. They are not as steadfast as you believe.”

 

“Tell me, if the creek is no longer in your territory, would it be smaller?” Gina asks from her end of the table.

 

“Of course it would.” The alphas sit, albeit slowly, seemingly ready to listen to their druid hosts. If Stiles is honest, he wants to know where this is going as well.

 

“Now, forgive me for asking, but has your pack sustained any losses recently?” Gina tilts her chin down to ask, eyes wide and everyone knows the question was not intended as malicious.

 

“Yes,” Alpha Warren replies tightly, “My father just passed away.” Gina nods sympathetically before continuing.

 

“I know it may be difficult to understand, but you do not have as much control over your territory lines as you think you do. You see, the lines are magic.”

 

“Is that why you get that feeling when you pass over them?” Stiles blurts, loud and obnoxious. He presses his lips together as everyone turns to look at him, dipping his gaze. But he catches how Derek stares them down, hackles raising ever so slightly until everyone returns their attention to Gina.

 

“Yes, Stiles. The lines are magic and therefore are controlled by the laws of magic. As a pack grows and diminishes, so does their territory. It’s an ebb and flow of nature to ensure that everyone has what they need.” The alphas all take a moment to process the information before nodding and accepting it. “If you would like, Benjamin and I can bring up a map detailing the most current drawing of the lines.”   

 

After the fiasco that was the territory dispute, the wolves find it necessary to fight over the rights each pack holds. If there ever was trouble again (knock on wood) and a pack was the venture into territory that wasn’t theirs, what powers should they be allowed? If the alpha of the territory goes is indisposed, does the second-in-command take over or the alpha of the assisting pack? Technically the second alpha has more power, but at the cost of traditional hierarchy? All in all, the first day is a complete failure in making any progress for crafting an alliance.

 

“It seems like we could all use some time to think and breathe new air.” Benjamin stands from his place at the head of the table. Stiles’ shoulders slump with relief, draining some of the tension that had been building up in his shoulders while the alphas and emissaries growled and sparked at one another.

 

“I suggest we call it a night and reconvene tomorrow morning. How does nine sound to everyone?” The alphas nod, all looking worn down but like they don’t want to show how tired they really are.

 

“That was fun.” Stiles mutters, bitterly when he and Derek finally collapse into the Camaro and out of earshot of supernatural ears.

 

“This is pointless!” Derek growls, slamming a fist against the steering wheel. Stiles’ lack of flinch must testify to how dead-beat tired he is, or maybe how used to Derek he is. He could understand Derek’s frustration, the meeting had really been stationary despite the word count they had thrown out there. Even Stiles was growing tired of speaking by the time William called it a night. It had been the first of many days ahead to balance power amongst wolves and it didn’t look like it was headed anywhere quick let along the right direction.

 

“It’s not. We need this alliance, all of us.” Stiles looks out the front window, out at the rapidly darkening sky as the sun sets and the stars start to blink into existence. “We just have to be patient, Sourwolf, no need to throw a hissy fit.” Stiles sighs sinking back into his seat even further as Derek flips on the seat warmers.

 

“Sourwolf?” Normally, the nickname is repeated in a growl or with the underlying suggestion that Stiles should never say it again if he wants to keep his throat intact. 

 

This is different - it’s a question, Derek is asking if he’s really forgiven. And, honestly, Stiles would be hard pressed to say he wasn’t. All throughout the discussions, Derek had looked to Stiles for cues. Silently asking if he agreed with a comment or to watch as Stiles would rise to his feet in Derek’s defense. They had been a team today, Derek treating him like an equal.

 

“Yeah, Sourwolf. Now, let’s leave, okay? I’m tired and want to sleep for the next seven thousand years.” Stiles ends with a whine and watches out of the corner of his eye while Derek’s lip twitches in the corner. 

 

The magic under his skin thrums happily, reminding him of just how discontent and unsettled it had been while he had given Derek the silent treatment. As much as he would love to say it was just because he was stressed and on edge all day, he was enough of a mature adult to accept the fact that his magic had latched onto the alpha in some way. He wasn’t going to examine ‘why Derek’, that he’d leave for a day long into the future called Never.

 

“You sure you’re not hungry first?” Derek asks, pulling out of the parking lot and turning out onto the main road. Stiles is half a second away from opening his mouth and whining again about just wanting to sleep and never get out of bed again when his stomach decides to perform its version of a whale’s mating call.

 

“Get that smirk off your face, so help me.” Stiles slaps his hands over his face to hide his humiliation but Derek just chuckles.

 

“So, food then sleep forever?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Isn’t that my line?”

 

“I could babble until I’m fed and pass out?”

 

“Shut up, Stiles.”


	5. Communication Is Key

“You were right,” Stiles huffed as he collapsed into his seat in the Camaro, “this is pointless!” He throws his hands up in exasperation while Derek gracefully slid behind the wheel.

 

“Seat belt.” Is all he replies with.

 

“We’ve gotten nowhere with these talks,” he continues, clicking his seat belt noisily when Derek shoots him a look of disapproval, “It’s been nearly a week.”

 

“Five days.”

 

“That’s an entire business week!” He whines. Derek just rolls his eyes as he pulls out of the hotel’s driveway and heads to the community center/super secret druid hide-out. “No one can agree on anything so all we’ve done is bicker and snarl and that one chick zapped me!”

 

In a rather heated debate over emissary rights in a foreign territory the Barnett pack’s emissary,

Jada, had gotten a little pissy. She had flicked a particularly rude finger his way, adding a little magic mojo that sent a shock through Stiles’ body and resulting in a rather demeaning squeak. Of course, he was very capable of overlooking his embarrassment in favor of remembering how Derek had jumped to his defense, nearly leaping over the table and baring his teeth in a deadly snarl.

 

“We settled the territory dispute.”

 

“Only because there was nothing to dispute! Magic is an inarguable force, Derek.” Stiles’ voice has been leaning to the side of shrill ever since the topic of the discussions had been brought up that morning, much to Derek’s annoyance. Props to him for managing not to wolf out and eat Stiles for a snack. “We can’t agree on anything and Scott called because we haven’t reported back with any real progress. He actually noticed we are updating him, Derek! The boy who didn’t realize we were throwing him a surprise birthday party even after Isaac accidentally sent him an invitation! We’re supposed to be making allies and treaties but at this rate all we’ll walk away with are enemies.” 

 

Stiles drops his face into his hands, pressing his palms into his aching eyes. He’s tired and just wants to go home . It wasn’t like sharing a bed with a teddy bear of a werewolf was bad or anything, but the comfort and warm, gooey feeling that came with it dissipated like mist in the Sahara the moment these talks were brought up.

 

“I know you’re frustrated, we all are.” A heavy palm covers his nape, a pressureless weight of comfort, “but I also know you’re too stubborn and care too much to just give up.” It’s almost profound the way the words settle over Stiles just like the alpha’s hand, draped like a quilt in winter.

 

“You’re right, I just …” Stiles sighs, “We’ve never really been great at diplomacy and I still can’t figure out why you brought me instead of Deaton because you know, he’s actually experienced.”

 

“We’ve never quite mastered how to be diplomatic.” Derek nods, pulling into a parking space. “You might want to fix your hair, it got all …” Derek gestures vaguely at Stiles’ mop of hair before giving up and just pulling his visor down so he could use the mirror.

 

“Of fucking course.” Stiles mutters, quickly licking his palm and pushing around the messy strands in hopes of dispelling the static electricity.

 

“And you aren’t leaving this car until you get all the frost off your seat.” Derek tells him, before climbing out of the car and heading for the community center. Looking down, Stiles sees the thin layer of frost that’s accumulated on the upholstery around him and mutters a curse. Ten minutes later, Stiles is walking into the building (sans one jacket that he used to mop up the melted ice) when he runs into someone. Someone large and firm and wearing entirely too tight t-shirts.

 

“Well, hello.” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut while he rubs his (likely bruised) nose.

 

“My face feels like it hit a brick wall.” He complains, too preoccupied with his pain to really recognize who he’s talking to.

 

“I apologize for my wall-like muscle mass,” the man comment with humor, “I’ll try to keep our encounters more gentle.” That gets Stiles’ attention, snapping his gaze up from where he previously been going cross eyed trying to inspect his own nose.

 

“Alpha Warren.” Stiles drops the hand from his face and straightens up just a fraction, easily slipping into his emissary posture and mindset.

 

“Please, call me Jonathan.” He smiles prettily, with perfect teeth and cheeks that rise up into bright blue eyes. He was handsome in a way that princes were, traditional and bright, the man even gave off the sense of almost-regal.

 

“I think it’s better if we stick to formalities.” Stiles shoots back, narrowing his eyes. He could feel his magic stir under his skin, not quite unpleasantly, but like it was a warning that a warning would soon be going off. A little preemptive and all kinds of annoying.

 

“Oh, but Stiles-”

 

“Emissary Hale.” Stiles cuts him off, careful to put extra emphasis on his pack’s name.

 

“We can be friends.” Alpha Warren continues as if Stiles hadn’t interrupted causing Stiles to bristle and he could feel his feet grow just a tad bit colder in warning of another bout of Frustration Frost. “I know that this week hasn’t been the best of examples, but we can be civilized.” There’s that smile again. He can feel the muscles between his shoulders tense and knows he’s radiating all the signals for ‘irritated’, ‘stressed’, and ‘uncomfortable’.

 

“I don’t need friends, my pack need allies.” He quips, starting to make a move towards darting around the man but is stopped by his hulking frame getting in the way.

 

“Why are you so tense? Are you alright?” If Stiles were any less perceptive the look on Alpha Warren’s face would look sincere.

 

“I’m just fine, everyone is on edge with these talks.” Stiles’ words and tone are straddling the lines of civility but he’s determined to walk away from this without fucking up royally.

 

“Has the alpha not been helping you decompress? Surely you’ve been going to him with your concerns.” The words are carefully chosen, and the fact that he says “the alpha” and not “your alpha” don’t go unnoticed. The conversation as a whole has been polite enough but there’s an undercurrent here of secondary meaning and reading between carefully crafted lines. It’s a riptide created to trip Stiles up and pull him under the waves.

 

“My alpha has been nothing but supportive all week,” Stiles can’t help the acid that drips from his words, hoping to scald the alpha for what he had been implying. Derek may be a royal pain in his ass and makes plenty of mistakes, but only Stiles got to mention it because he’s an asshole like that. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” He’s sure to let the sparks that had been dancing at his fingertips crawl up his arms and around his shoulders, unable to be missed, “I should get back to him and perform my duties as his emissary.”

 

“It will be doing you a favor to know they doubt you.” Alpha Warren calls to him as he leaves, “It is seen as an even greater weakness to be divided than to be alone.” Stiles doesn’t look back or respond as he stomps down the hall and into the room where all the other alphas and emissaries are gathered. With all eyes on him, he walks to Derek with a steely focus that cuts through his self-consciousness.

 

“Alpha.”

 

_ “Whenever you address an alpha that isn’t your own, you must say ‘alpha’ and then the name of their pack.” Deaton had explained. _

 

_ “Like, as a respect thing?” _

 

_ “Yes, you are addressing their title and status as the alpha and respecting their pack as a whole.” _

 

_ “So, I call Derek Alpha Hale in public, got it.” _

 

_ “Not quite. You call him Derek mostly, as a sign of familiarity and because you’re pack. But in more serious situations you call him alpha .” _

 

_ “Why not Alpha Hale?” _

 

_ “He’s your alpha so the formality of addressing his pack is redundant because you would be addressing yourself. By addressing him as alpha you are saying he is your leader and you’re going to him with your struggles. It’s also a very important part of the bond.” _

 

“Stiles?” Derek looks up from his conversation with Alpha Barnett, eyebrows coming together in concern and lifting in question. 

 

Man, that was still a little strange, having Derek actually express his emotions beyond scowling and the Blank Face of Doom. Stiles had been overjoyed in the past few years to discover Derek was really quite expressive, that even though he lacked words he could say all he needed with that beautiful face. But right now, he was confused and probably worried because throughout the week Stiles had yet to address Derek this way so it most definitely set of little werewolf alarms.

 

“I, I just …” Stiles stops in front of where Derek sits at the long table, running shaky fingers through his hair and staring down at his Converse clad feet.

 

“Hey, you’re alright.” Derek stands up and reaches out to grip his upper arms, getting him to drop them at his sides. After a few seconds Stiles gains the courage to look up with tired eyes.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t wanna … I just …” Stiles sighs, dropping his forehead to the firm muscle of Derek’s shoulder.

 

“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine.” Derek continues to murmur softly, moving his too warm hands to Stiles’ shoulder blades and rubbing them until the tension from his earlier encounter releases. One hand lifts from its massage duties to gently swipe a thumb over the cheekbone not pressed against Derek shoulder. Scent marking, his mind sighs, relaxing even further even though the whole experience of scent has no real effect on him. Just as he’s beginning to worry about having to face the rest of the group after that little freak out, Derek stiffens under him.

 

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks as he turns to see for himself. Alpha Quddus and her emissary walk into the room looking worse for wear. Stiles is immediately hit with a complete sense of ‘wrong’ as his magic prickles unhappily under his skin. Alpha Quddus looks exhausted and her emissary  looks like she’s seen terrible things since yesterday evening. Deep bags hang under their eyes and Alpha Quddus’ dark complexion has taken on a hazardous hue.

 

“Alpha Quddus-”

 

“We apologize for being late, let’s continue our discussions.” The woman cuts off Gina who proceeds to reign in her look of concern and settles on something more neutral. In a room full of supernatural listeners, Stiles can’t just whisper behind his hand to Derek, so he sends his alpha a pointed look that clearly says ‘we’ll talk about this later’. Derek nods and they all settle into the meeting.

 

It’s five hours later when everyone gives up and calls it a night. Another five hours wasted in growls and bickering and if they made any progress, it was ignorable in how small it was. Once he and Derek have loaded up into the Camaro and driven far enough away from super ears, Stiles asks.

 

“What was up with Alpha Quddus? She looks like she’s dying and Athena didn’t look much better.” Stiles turns in his seat to watch Derek. There’s a crease between his eyebrows that says he’s trying to use his words so he waits patiently.

 

“She smelled … exhausted.” He decides on, which, honestly was a little underwhelming but at least he was trying.

 

“No, I’ve seen exhausted. That’s Scott and Isaac after trying to see who could stay up the longest and ended up not sleeping for two days until they passed out. She looked she was on the brink of death.”

 

“She doesn’t smell like death more just,” his nose scrunches and his eyebrows furrow, “drained.” Stiles nods, agreeing with the assessment.

 

“Did she seem jumpy to you?” Stiles asks, reflecting on the talk from today to those of the past week.

 

“Maybe, she felt … I don’t know.” Derek scowled, pulling into the parking lot of their hotel and jumping out of the car.

 

“Hey, don’t give up on words yet, you neanderthal!” Stiles shouts after him, huffing when Derek clicks the locks with Stiles still in the car and Derek halfway to their room. Muttering under his breath, Stiles manually unlocks and relocks his door before following the werewolf. Once in the room (where Derek can’t run away) he starts up again. “Okay, buddy, let’s try using our words again.”

 

“Stiles.” Derek shoots him a glare over his shoulder while he hangs up his leather jacket.

 

“You’ve got to try, dude! We need to communicate.” Stiles whines a little, jutting out his chin and pouting.

 

“I don’t know how to explain it, you’ll just have to figure it out yourself.” Derek huffs, walking to the bed and taking off his shoes.

 

“No, you need to work on using your words.”

 

“Shut up, Stiles.”

 

“No, you have to-”

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Derek-”

 

“Shut up.” Derek turns to where Stiles is kneeling on the other side of the be, baring his teeth in a deathly snarl with eyes flashing crimson. Stiles jolts back a little, unfamiliar with such hostility from the alpha. The room is draped in silence while Derek’s beta shift slowly drifts from his features. Stiles’ breathing is a little fast, eyes wide before they narrow. He hears the sparks crackle at his fingers and the room drops no less than twenty degrees while the light over head flickers. Before Derek can tell him off for losing control, Stiles is leaping across the bed and tackling Derek to the ground.

 

“You don’t get to just not try!” Stiles yells as they crash to the ground, careful to squeeze and pin Derek’s thighs with his knees and pin down clawed hands up by his shoulders. Of course, human!Stiles wouldn’t be capable of such a feat as keeping an alpha werewolf pinned to the ground if his magic wasn’t pushing with him.

 

“Stiles.” He growls, flashing his eyes.

 

“That’s bullshit.” He growls back, pulling something animal from down within him, something that only comes with running with wolves for so long. “Talk to me dammit!” Derek locked eyes with him and they both knew they weren’t just talking about the problem with Alpha Quddus. They had had too many arguments based in their inability to just talk. They stay like that for long, taffy stretched seconds before Stiles climbs off of Derek and crosses his arms. 

 

“Just let it be, Stiles.” Derek growled, not looking at him while he shrugged on his jacket by his window.

 

“This isn’t some Beatles song, Derek! We have to talk.” He was unashamed to say he was pleading. It had been a long day. The pack had just defeated yet another water nymph claiming the miniature lake on the Hale property as their own and Stiles had to live on scattered updates while listening to the endless bickering of alphas.

 

“There isn’t anything to talk about.” He huffed, pushing past Stiles on his way to the door. 

 

“There is plenty to talk about.” Stiles pushed his magic to the surface, imagining the door shutting and hearing it slam with power then rattle as Derek tries to overpower his will and make a break for it.

 

“Like what.” He snarls, still unable to actually ask questions and instead orders them like commands. Maybe it’s an alpha thing.

 

“Like how you almost died, you asshole.” Stiles crosses his arms and glares at the back of Derek’s head. They both know he’s talking about the wendigo from before the trip. The one Derek had thrown himself on carelessly when it tried to make a break for it in the Preserve before they had the chance to properly use their trap.

 

“I guess you haven’t noticed, but that happens a lot.” Derek sneers when he turns around to send back his own glare. A look that has stopped working on Stiles for years.

 

“Oh, wolf’s got jokes? That’s great, but I’m trying to have a grown up conversation if you don’t mind.” Stiles smiles mirthlessly, it’s really more of a grimace.

 

“That’s rich coming from you.”

 

And it always just deteriorates from there, until all it is is snapping comebacks and snide little jabs at every weak spot they can think of that’s fair game. They never get anywhere, and now here at this conference where these treaty talks are just as stunningly useless, it’s glaringly obvious how horrible they are at talking.

 

“What do you want me to say, Stiles? I don’t know what to say .” Derek lifts his head like he’s trying to glare Stiles down like when he tosses him against anything immobile.

 

“Figure it out.” Stiles leans just that bit closer, making sure his gaze never wavers. He won’t be brought down by Derek’s alpha posturing and power plays. They were equals.

 

That’s when the pain comes. It’s slow at first. A discomfort in his lower abdomen that spread up and out, his spine curls in on itself like it can defend his softness from an attack that isn’t there. He groans, dropping his head on Derek’s chest.

 

“Stiles?” The growl is gone and in with the concern and confusion. He’s obviously scented his pain and his instincts demand he figures out what’s wrong.

 

“Hurts.” Stiles’ magic falters when a new wave of pain hits like a rock to his gut, making him curl even further. 

 

“Where? Stiles, where does it hurt?” Derek leads him to the bed as Stiles whimpers, visibly cringing when the movement drags more hurt sounds from his emissary.

 

“Stomach.” He grits out, biting his lip when Derek gives up on trying to make him walk and lifts him in supernaturally strong arms. Stiles had grown over the years, filling out and gaining muscle because magic required a backbone. He was man-sized now, even if he didn't always look it compared to his werewolf counterpart.

 

“Hey, I know you want a lip piercing, but that isn’t the way to do it.” Derek pushes at the crown of his head with his nose, making Stiles smile and release his lip despite the pain still coursing through him. Derek lays him down on his side, gently on the bed and doesn’t waste a second to mold himself to his back. A hand comes around, draping an arm over his waist as the hand slips just a couple inches under his shirt to lay warm fingers over Stiles abdomen. Stiles sighs as the pain is leached away and replaced by that weird warm, floaty feeling when Derek’s arm snakes with black.

 

“Thanks, Sourwolf.” He murmurs when the hand slips back out but doesn’t leave his stomach. He’s almost gone from the world of consciousness when he hears a faint voice uttering words he probably wasn’t expected to hear.

 

“I’m trying, Stiles.”


	6. Pain & Patience

“Stiles?” The voice comes to him from somewhere distant, like the sound is being filtered through cotton and maybe a wall. All Stiles knows is that it doesn’t sound quite right, there’s something in it that makes his hands want to reach out and comfort. Oh, and it’s getting closer.

 

“Stiles. Come on, Stiles, don’t do this. You have to wake up.” Slowly, like he was puzzle pieces coming together, Stiles becomes aware of his body and the feel of a blanket over him, a firm body behind him, a voice that breathed across his hair, rustling it with morning breath. He also noticed a hand gripping his shoulder, shaking in a way that felt too panicked this early in the morning.

 

“Ugh.” He huffs, squeezing his eyes tight before cracking them open. The hotel room comes into focus and as he turns his head he takes in a very concerned looking Derek Hale.

 

“Thank God,” Derek exhales heavily, dropping his forehead to Stiles’ shoulder where his hand still grips firmly.

 

“Wha’ happen’d?” Stiles asks, lifting an arm that feels like lead to reach out and pet the alpha.  Derek will never admit it, but being scratched behind the ears is something he likes to indulge in. 

 

The first time Stiles had done it as a joke and snorted when a sleepy Derek had leaned further into the touch, of course the scowl had instantly returned when he had woken up properly. Stiles laughed but Derek had jumped up from his spot on the couch growling but Stiles couldn’t stop. It was a nice memory, one that made Stiles chest warm with affection, adding to the soft feeling of just waking up.

 

“You wouldn’t wake up.” Derek lifts his head effectively popping the gentle bubble of good feelings Stiles had been riding in, his eyes earnest in a way that was relatively new. Becoming an alpha once more had done wonders for Derek’s spectrum of facial expressions.

 

“I’m a teenage boy, Derek, the morning is my nemesis.” He tries to lighten the mood with a wry smile and flinging an arm over his still light sensitive eyes dramatically.

 

“I took your pain.” the werewolf continues, and Stiles can feel the way the bed dips even further as Derek shifts to lean over him, tossing his arm to the side, “All night.”

 

“Probably just a stomach bug,” Stiles shrugs, calling on everything he has for just enough control of his heart to get away with the lie. “You know there’s plenty of people who catch colds in summer because they get lazy with it not actually being flu season. I’ve always had a weak immune system, so it’s really not all that surprising that I managed to catch something.” Stiles rambles, letting loose lies of omission and general statements, hoping to avoid the tattle tale blip of his heart. He watches as Derek’s eyebrows furrow, “It’s probably nothing, I’ll get over it but don’t be surprised if I snore because my nose gets all snobbily and gross.”

 

“You already snore.” Derek looks like he wants to say something else, ask questions or press for the information that he’s likely caught on to Stiles withholding. But he turns away and pulls himself out of bed, still in the clothes he wore yesterday.

 

“I do not!” Stiles cries indignantly. The rest of the morning passes like that as they try to slip back into their normal routine of preparing for the day. What they refuse to acknowledge is that ‘normal’ can’t be achieved after they’ve started so wrong. It’s an hour later when the pull up at the community center and Stiles’ magic bristles under his skin.

 

“Something’s wrong.” Derek mutters, scenting the air and rolling his shoulders as they walk through the doors

 

“When isn’t something wrong?” Stiles huffs, trying for snappy but it just comes out tired. They pick up their pace as they walk down the halls to the meeting room where they slow considerably. It was like crossing a territory line, walking under a waterfall to separate the frantic wariness of the halls to the solemn feel of the room before them.

 

“Welcome Hale pack.” William greets them quietly, but it carries easily is the heavy silence.

 

“Please sit, we have some news for the group.” Gina gestures to their usual spot at the table. 

 

In high school, when you walk in late, everyone stares at you like you just grew a second head. Stiles almost wishes for that kind of scrutiny so at least he would have some way to gauge the situation. Now, everyone kept their eyes glued to the table in front of them like they could all sense the bad coming, even if they didn’t know from where.

 

“Thank you all for coming but I am afraid we won’t be having our meeting today.” William says, causing the table of people to stir, “Alpha Quddus has fallen ill and her emissary has taken a toll trying to help her.”

 

“What is she sick with?” Stiles asks, not willing to duck his head in embarrassment and negate his concern. Alpha Quddus and Athena were the closest thing to friends he and Derek have here.

 

“We don’t know.” That sent Stiles’ mind whirring because there were very few thing that could make a werewolf sick, and if it wasn’t any of those things then there were bigger problems at hand than treaties and good will amongst packs.

 

“So, our talks are cancelled for today. Take a break, stretch out and breathe a little. We’ll reconvene tomorrow with whatever updates we receive from Alpha Quddus and Athena.” William stands before anyone could argue if they had wanted to and leaves with Gina following close behind. Eventually everyone gets to their feet and meanders out.

 

“I-”

 

“I already know what you want, Stiles. No.” Stiles clicks his hanging jaw shut with a huff.

 

“But-” He tries.

 

“No.” Is Derek’s edging-on-Alpha-voice reply comes. They continue walking to the car while grumbles under his voice, perfectly aware that his werewolf companion could hear him.

 

“But, Derek-” At least he got a little further, right?

 

“No ‘but’s and I swear to God if you make a butt joke I will rip your throat out. With my teeth.” Stiles just huffs and crosses his arms petulantly when they get into the car. The ride is silent because Stiles is too caught up in the mystery of Alpha Quddus’ health to even think of trying to fill it with inane babble like usual. It must remind Derek too much of of when Stiles was giving him the cold shoulder because he keeps giving him these looks before sighing exasperation and making a detour to the side of the road.

 

“I’ll assume you know everyone’s hotels.” Stiles can hear the resignation in his voice, but he also knows the alpha has a sort of soft spot for his stubbornness so he doesn’t take offense.

 

“Make a left at the next light.” After a few more turns and plenty more of those put upon sighs that sound far too much like his father, they arrive at a Best Western just ten or so miles from where he and Derek are staying. Upon arrival, Derek is already trying to start a war.

 

“Woah there, big guy. What do you think you’re doing?” Stiles swings his arm, human arm to stop the werewolf from crossing the territory line Stiles can feel in front of them.

 

“Going to find them.”

 

“Yeah, no. That’s not how this works, that’s not how any of this works.” Derek just raises his eyebrows expectantly causing him to roll his eyes in response. “You can’t just invade their pseudo-territory, dummy, you’re just asking for a fight even if you are buddy-buddy. We need to be invited.”

 

“How is she suppose to do that if she’s bedridden?” The snark is thinly veiled and Stiles wants to smack him, but that would obviously do more damage to his hand than to Derek’s chest.

 

“Werewolves are so dumb. ” Stiles face palms, “Just, stand there and watch.” Stiles flails his hand at Derek’s face, earning him an attempted bite to the appendage but he must be crazy or really comfortable with Derek’s wolfy behavior since he doesn’t try to snatch it back.

 

The following trick is one of the first he managed to perfect with Deaton. It was simple on the greater scale of magic,  but Stiles had nearly knocked himself unconscious in his excited jumping around when he had actually achieved a aíocht. Now, Stiles follows the steps he practiced with Deaton for hours on end, thinking of who wished to enter, why they wanted to come, the goodwill they were coming with. All of these thoughts were to be imagined as between the palms he pressed together, condensing them until they became tangible. It was an odd feeling, as his thoughts pulled from his skin like dried glue so that when he took apart his hands a small ball of light rested in his palms.

 

“Welcome to the magical world of emissaries, Derek.” Stiles smirked, not looking away from his creation as it finished its forming, completing itself to resemble a wispy and bright little fox.

 

“What is it?” He could see Derek tentatively step closer, a sort of careful wonder in his voice.

 

“Consider it druid text messaging.” Stiles then uncupped his palms, dropping the aíocht until it flew off and into the hotel to find Athena as instructed. “Pretty coo- ah.” Before he can finish his sentence, he’s doubling over, clutching his abdomen as a hot flare of pain strikes through him.

 

“Stiles!” Derek is holding him in less than a second, holding him up and looking for damage. “Stomach bug my ass.” He mutters, pushing his hand under Stiles’ shirt to drain the pain.

 

“You callin’ me a liar?” And Stiles realizes just how freaked out Derek is, because he indulges him.

 

“I ain’t callin’ you a truther.” He mutters softly, while the black lines fade back down his arms. “What is going on, Stiles? What’s wrong?” Stiles doesn’t risk looking at Derek, knowing he will have that new found look of earnestness that, judging by his voice, also had a touch of pleading that made Stiles heart want to beat out of his chest and crumble all at once. This new emotion-friendly Derek was going to be the end of him.

 

“Hey, look, they responded.” Stiles chirped, pulling away from Derek’s grip and reaching out for the glowing elephant the size of his hand. He lets the animal float up to his hand and settle there, letting it melt and sink into his sink. As it vanishes, Stiles has this deep feeling so that he knows they are welcome in the territory. “Come on, Der, we’ve been invited in.” They walk in silence as Derek scents his way to Alpha Quddus’ room, but he keeps darting these worried little looks over his shoulder like he thinks Stiles will collapse at any second. Once they’re at the door, Derek knocks.

 

“Hello, Alpha Hale, Stiles.” Athena answers the door, gesturing to invite them in. Athena had never been a very smiling person, but right now as she made a quick retreat back to her alpha’s side, she looked haggard and worn down.

 

“Alpha Quddus, Athena, we are sorry to hear of your illness.” Stiles says with a dip of his head when it becomes obvious that Derek has no idea what to do.

 

“Thank you, Stiles.” Alpha Quddus tries to smile, but even that looks weak from where she lays in her bed. Her cheeks gaunt and the bags under her eyes even worse than the day before. Her olive complexion looks ashy and gray like something had sucked the pigment from her skin, even her irises are dim and beginning to look more gray-scale than the rich and dark brown that they were when they had met.

 

“We came because no one seems to know what you’re sick with. I was wondering if you could tell me about it? Maybe I can help?”

 

“You know a lot about supernatural illnesses?” Alpha Quddus asks, raising an eyebrow skeptically, but it looks like even that takes a lot of effort and energy for her. Stiles reaches out and places his fingers against Derek’s forearm before the alpha can get too upset about the woman mocking Stiles ability. He knows that she doesn’t mean to be harsh or condescending, but sometimes Derek’s wolf doesn’t get that.

 

“No, but I know of ways to figure it out.” Stiles smiles, moving closer to the bed with Derek right behind him.

 

“Well, I don’t seem to have much to lose, do I emissary Hale?” He smiles encouragingly while his magic purrs under his skin, happy to have such a title. And he can’t deny that his heart does a little flip at the thought of it being real. Ah, yes, that sours his mood. He shouldn’t forget that just because he had that old, worn wallet and all the scent marking they did none of this was real. Derek bumps his shoulder just a bit, probably noticing the difference in his demeanor or scent, he merely shrugs him off.

 

“So, what happened, Alpha Quddus?”

 

“Please, call me Sonali. I consider us friends and formalities are such a drag.” Stiles smiles and nods, heart lifting once more knowing his pack is on its way to an ally and one that closely bordered their own territory in Beacon Hills. ”I’m not entirely sure. I remember going to bed feeling fine, but I had really bad dreams -”

 

“What kind of dreams?” Stiles interjects before blushing a little and offering an apology.

 

“Horrible things.” Sonali mutters softly, looking at Stiles but he knew she wasn’t seeing him but was caught in whatever had plagued her for so many nights.

 

“Can you specify? I’m sorry to ask, but it could help Stiles in his search.” Derek speaks up for the first time since they got here, he turns to look at his alpha, surprised and yet not to find a concerned and sympathetic gaze directed towards Sonali.

 

“They were vague, like looking through water. When I was little my sister and I would make faces at each other through a fish tank. But this wasn’t like that. It was this old woman and she wore rags and just looked at me. And then I felt this tugging in my chest like she was yanking on my heart. It hurt and I felt weaker and weaker and I just … I’m sorry.” Sonali covers her weary eyes with a hand and Athena reaches out to lay a hand on her arm, a steady comfort. A good emissary.

 

“No, that’s perfectly fine. I think I know enough to try figuring this out. I’m sure we can fix this, okay?” Stiles reaches out to both the women and speaks softly in Gaelic. He sees the two women ease the tension in their muscles, relaxing as much as a calming aura can help with.

 

“Thank you, Stiles.” With that cue he and Derek make their way out.

 

“Please help her.” Athena hugs Stiles before they make it out the door, whispering earnestly and it may be his imagination but he thinks he sees a little wetness in her eyes as she turns back around and leaves them.

 

“Well, Der, looks like I have some research to do.”


	7. A Twist of Nature

“So, are we leaving or what?” Stiles snaps from the table where he’s set up his laptop and notepad. He had been at it for hours now even just today, searching for any supernatural-medical reason for Sonali to be this ill. It was the beginning of day three of his research and if his tone with Derek was anything to go by, it was obviously fruitless.

 

“No. William called to say the meeting is cancelled.” Derek tells him calmly from where he sits at the edge of the bed. “They think whatever Alp- Sonali has is also affecting Alpha Barnett.” Stiles’ heart clenches because Alpha Barnett is the last person he would want to get sick. Out of everyone, he’s the oldest, with his gentle and kind eyes and frail looking hands - even if they are capable of snapping Stiles’ wrist with even just a flick of his own.

 

“Fuck.” Stiles just kind of drops at that, shoulders hunching and palms covering his weary face.

 

“What’s w-”

 

“I don’t know! I don’t fucking know, okay? I have no idea what’s wrong with them.” He rakes his hands through his hair, tugging at the too long strands because he missed the haircut he had scheduled for today because it was back in Beacon Hills. They had been here for nearly two weeks and yet they had gotten nowhere. The pack was growing restless with their alpha being gone for so long and Stiles couldn’t blame them. Isaac had called for the update last night because Derek had growled at Scott in a way that made the beta whine in submission and drop the phone.

 

His best friend had been asking Stiles if he had made any progress on what was getting to Sonali and them more questions about the talk and possible allies and when they might be home and if Stiles could please come home soon and Stiles had been practically shaking with all the pent up emotion as he tried not to snap at Scott. But Derek had done it for him.

 

“Sti-”

 

“I get it, lives are stake and we need to figure this out for us to go back to those godforsaken talks but I just don’t know!” Stiles’ voice was going shrill as all the anger and frustration and fear from the last few days poured out of him. “It doesn’t matter how I phrase or enter her symptoms, it keeps telling me she just has plain ol’ depression. She has all the classic tells - wouldn’t get out of bed even if she physically could, won’t eat, won’t talk to Athena and she’s barely responsive to any of the things she used to love. But I have nothing. I know nothing.” I am nothing.

 

“Go lay down, Stiles.” Derek has managed (though not a difficult feat) to sneak up on Stiles while he went off like an emotional nuke. He’s rubbing his back and gently pries at his hands where they’re trying to push his eyeballs back into his skull. He stands mechanically, notices the frost coating the area around and on his work table. If Derek wasn’t going to care about it to have him clean it up, then he wasn’t going to worry.

 

He walks on unsteady knees to their shared bed, laying back and then curling up on his side, facing where Derek had disappeared into the bathroom. Except, when he came out, it wasn’t to come sit with him, he had a towel in his hand. Stiles watched blankly while the alpha wiped up the frost and toweled at the places already melting. Maybe that was his breaking point, who even knows how he kept it together this long, but all he knows is the tears are flowing.

 

Derek looks up from his work and Stiles sees the way the tension between his neutrally scowling eyebrows soften while the pressure built behind his own. Stiles took shallow, hitching breaths and let them out in shutters through his mouth while his nose clogged. Derek looked back down, finishing his task before throwing the towel by the laundry and then coming towards him.

 

Not a word was spoken when Derek rounded the other side of the bed and crawled in. Movements were smooth and natural as his muscled forearm came around to wrap Stiles up. No tension was created as Stiles wrapped his bony fingers around Derek’s warm hand, holding it close to his chest. They lay in silence, save for the quiet little sobs that Stiles couldn’t, and didn’t care to hold back.

 

He didn’t know why he was being like this. Sure, he had had plenty of long nights in endless searches that gave him nothing in return for his lack of sleep. Too many nights spent with his eyes drying out in front of a computer screen. But he had never lost his cool like this, never lost so much control over his magic or emotions. Then again, that was a lie, wasn’t it. He knew exactly what was going on.

 

_ “You won’t go insane, Mr. Stilinski. You will lose control.” Deaton reiterated, looking over his shoulder to examine Stiles’ work on the herbs he was crushing. _

 

_ “Not really seeing a difference their, Doc.” _

 

_ “Going insane means losing your mind. You would be irrational and crazy, losing control is a whole different beast to grapple with.“ Deaton beckoned him over, having him make a circle from the dust he’s created while he lights a candle off to the side. Just a routine cleansing, banishing any “bad joo-joo” as Stiles liked to call it from the clinic. _

 

_ “What does, uh, losing control look like?” Stiles asks faux-casual, hyper focused on the task at hand while he draws the various symbols and markings needed for the spell. In all honesty, he doesn’t really want to know, but he’s also afraid of thinking anything outside the normal is a sign of his demise. Better to know what to look for than be scared of everything. _

 

_ “Well, it will get harder for you to do magic. It becomes painful and draining to perform even simple tasks.” Stiles looks up from his finished work to watch Deaton as he goes about the last steps of the ritual. “Your scent to will become jumbled, tainted almost while your body is fighting off what it has no power to heal. As I’ve told you before, it would be a disruption to nature, so nature will twist and bend to right itself but it won’t work. Only a bond will fix it.” _

 

_ “And what does naturing twisting and bending look like?” _

 

_ “It depends on the person and what nature decides as a fit way to fix the problem.” _

 

“Stiles, just tell me what’s wrong.” He comes back to the present and Derek’s voice as the alpha’s breath pours over the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Derek squeezes him once around his middle, shuffling him closer to his superhuman body heat and Stiles is unashamed to say he melts into it, as even just a portion of the tension seeps from his body.

 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with them, Der.” Stiles whispers it, like saying it any louder will bring down the building around them. Like if his magic, under his skin, hears him, it will do something especially crazy.

 

“Hey, shhh, shhhh. Stiles, breathe.” He swallows hard around the lump in his throat, trying to suck in deep breaths but only managing half lungfuls when he realizes sparks are crawling up his skin. “You’re alright. You’re safe, you’re safe.” Derek murmurs, rubbing up and down his arm placatingly. Stiles thinks about the words, ask what safe really means. Is he safe? What, in the grand scheme of things is safe? Is safe relative, because compared to their usual lives, safe has pretty low standards. Safe. He’s safe.

 

“But you’re not.” Stiles’ breathing spikes, heart rate going from zero to sixty in the span of a second. He twists and pushes around in Derek’s arms, trying to pull away, but only succeeding in being pulled that much closer to Derek, but now facing the werewolf instead of back to front.

 

“Sti-”

 

“No, Derek, you’re not safe. Whatever this is affects alphas and news flash, you’re an alpha!” Stiles wiggles again, trying in vain to release himself. “I have to go, I have to figure this out. Let me go, dammit!”

 

“Stiles, calm down!” Derek’s grip tightens even further, threatening to crush Stiles, even though he knows the alpha would never hurt him. 

 

They were long past that, really, there was never a time when Derek would hurt him. But now, with all this time and pack building between them, Stiles had an innate trust that Derek would never do anything to hurt him. And that’s why Stiles needed to move so bad. He needed to get back to his laptop, to research to figure out what was going on. He had to protect Derek the only way he really could, but the werewolf is the one in his way. 

 

“Stop it, you’re going to hurt yourself. Stiles!” Derek yelps in surprise when Stiles sends out the lightest shock, causing his grip to loosen and gives him the opportunity to jump off the bed and out of reach.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Der.” Stiles looks on in horror, realizing too late what he’s done. Stiles never played with electricity and the pack, never shocked them or even discharged static electricity on them. Electricity and fire were off limits because even Stiles, asshole of the assholes, didn’t joke about torture.

 

“Stiles, I’m fine, really, but this needs to stop.” Derek sits up on the bed and drops to his knees in front of where Stiles tumbled to the floor in his attempt to escape. “We’re pack, and pack helps each other.” Derek’s face is open and soft, pleading with him and that scares him. “Just let me help.”

 

Stiles’ magic absolutely sings under his skin, humming through his bones and blood knowing exactly what Derek could do to help. He can feel it in his gut, swirling and reaching out, tugging at Stiles, pleading with him to just let Derek keep him. He always wondered if that’s what having a wolf was like, this energy with a mind of its own. But Stiles presses back, reigns in the magic in him, controlling it and reminding himself that he can’t ask that of Derek. This pack deserves the choice in taking an emissary, not being saddled with a charity case.

 

“Wait, what did you say?” Stiles looks up from where he’s had his hands covering his face, blinking up at Derek.

 

“We’re pack, pack helps pack.” Derek replies slowly, still concerned and obviously unsure of what has changed Stiles’ demeanor so suddenly.

 

“Pack. Pack, that’s it!” Stiles then scrambles to his feet, vaulting over his bed and nearly slamming over the nightstand in his haste to grab his phone. In a second he has it dialing a familiar number.

 

“Stiles?” Derek asks after him, slowly standing and walking towards him. Stiles holds out a hand, willing Derek to stop and hopefully let him figure this out.

 

“Stiles?” A new, feminine voice asks over the phone.

 

“Lydia! Hey, are you near your laptop?” Stiles is bouncing on the balls of his feet, willing his newly acquired best friend to hurry the hell up.

 

“Yes, why?” She drawls out her answer, “I swear, Stiles, if you dropped yours one mor-”

 

“No, no, geez. You drop your laptop off a balcony once and no one lets you live it down.” Stiles huffs, allowing himself to smile a little. He can feel his chest growing light with the prospect of actually getting somewhere.

 

“Fine, what do you need me for?” She asks as he hears her shuffling around on the other end and then the clacking of her typing in her password.

 

“Well, we never had the chance to upload the bestiary to my new one and I need to looks some things up and a little bit of your help.” Stiles lets himself drop onto the edge of the bed and contents himself to bouncing his leg like a jackhammer on crack. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Derek sit at the table across the room with a scowl on his face, but that was really his default expression so he didn’t pay it too much mind.

 

“What am I looking for?” Lydia asks and he can just imagine her poised over the keys and grins.

 

“Derek mentioned that Sonali smelled drained. So, I’m thinking something like succubi or incubi.” Lydia hums on the other end, tapping away at her keyboard.

 

“Okay. You sound like you don’t think it’s one of those, though.”

 

“Nope, doesn’t fit what I’m looking for.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t think succubi go after elderly men.” Stiles tells her.

 

“Don’t shame old people sex, Stiles.” He barks out a startled laugh and knows Lydia has that self satisfied smirk on her face like she always does when she manages to catch Stiles off guard like that.

 

“Anyway, ” Stiles drawls, “Look at the foot notes and tell me the related creatures.”

 

“Those weren’t there last time.”

 

“I had a slow weekend.”

 

“Figures.” She concedes and Stiles decided to not take offense, he’s learned to pick his battles. “Okay, looks like the only related creature is called a nocnitsa. ” Lydia’s Polish is a little rusty, but Stiles lets her side.

 

“Describe it to me.” The laughter is gone from his voice, switching fluidly to research mode with focus as sharp at diamond blades.

 

“It says that the nocnitsa is a nightmare spirit originating in Poland. The entry says  _ “she is said to come in the night and sits on the sleeper’s chest and drains them of their life force” _ . That sounds terrifying.” Stiles hums in agreement, mind jumping from one thought to another almost too fast for him to follow.

 

“Tell me the symptoms.”

 

“It says  _ “nightmares, fatigue, lack of will, lack of hunger, ashen skin, restless sleep” _ . What is going on up there, Stiles?” Lydia sounds a little on edge. The pack knew about the situation and that there was something wrong with Sonali, but without any real data collection from Stiles they didn’t know he extent of the problem.

 

“Just tell me how this thing works.” He lets the firm authority filter into his voice, knowing that it settles the betas pretty thoroughly and even if Lydia isn’t a were, but she’s pack. He gives her a moment to read the entire entry before explaining it to him.

 

“It says she feeds off the energy of life, draining people. But she can’t take in big doses so the drain happens over a series of nights -”

 

“How many?”

 

“Depends on the person. On average it’s about a week for a healthy thirty year-old.”

 

“What about an eighty year-old werewolf?”

 

“A few days?”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Stiles -”   

 

“What do we have to do to stop it?” He cuts her off, not willing to hear that question yet again.

 

“Well, the bestiary says that a nocnitsa is made of shadows, but she has to condense herself into a solid form to feed. You have to kill her when she’s in this state with an iron knife soaked in chamomile.”  

 

“Okay, thanks, Lyds.” With a similar goodbye from her, Stiles hangs up. With a shaky exhale, he lets his shoulders fall back, his anxiety content with finally having a plan. It takes a couple minutes for Stiles to register the abundant silence in the room. “Hey Sourwolf? You heard all that, yeah?” He turns to look at Derek where he still sits at the table like he’s been frozen there. For a second, he thinks he is frozen (it wouldn’t be the first time Stiles has subconsciously magicked someone into not interrupting him) but Derek offers a stiff nod before standing. “Derek?”

 

“I’m taking a shower. Then we tell the druids.” Without looking up from where he’s gathering a new change of clothes and his toiletries, Derek whisks himself away and closes the bathroom door with a resounding thud.


	8. A Desperate Man's "Mistake"

“Alpha Hale, is there a problem?” Benjamin looks up from a large book, old and weathered, bookmarking it when he catches sight of the werewolf’s face. Stiles remained two steps behind Derek, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

 

“We know what’s affecting Alpha Quddus and Alpha Barnett.” Benjamin sits up straighter, pushing the book to the side while gesturing to the seats in front of his oak wood desk.

 

“What do you know?” Stiles settles into his seat, silent. The car ride here had been utterly painful, awkward to the point of anxiety. Derek hadn’t been his usual broody silent, but a tense and almost angry sort of quiet that reminded Stiles of a wound festering in the chances of infection. But Stiles couldn’t get a read on what was wrong, had no place to even begin to flounder through fixing it so now here they are while the tension still hangs.

 

“Sti- my emissary figured it out.” Derek replied evenly, despite his slip up. But Stiles can feel his magic practically growl.

 

“Really? What is it then?”

 

“Yeah, uh, they aren’t sick,” he shakes his head a bit, hoping to clear it, “It’s a Polish nightmare spirit. A nocnitsa.” He presses his palms together, slipping his fingers between his thighs. Hopefully it would still the shakes and conceal any rogue sparks he couldn’t hold back.

 

“Can you describe it?” Benjamin asks.

 

“Sure, um, a nocnitsa is a demon of sorts. She comes when you sleep and drains you of your life source which is why the alphas look so sick.”

 

“And how do we defend against it?”

 

“Our packmate, Lydia, told me -” And there it is, Derek stiffens next to him and Stiles feels it like a hit to the chest. Stiles forces himself to take one steadying breath before continuing, “that an iron knife dipped in chamomile will kill it. But it isn’t that simple.” For the next few minutes Stiles explains how to kill the nocnitsa and the rough outline of a plan to ensure they do this right with the smallest chance of failure and anyone else suffering at the creature’s hands. He tries to focus on Benjamin as he asks clarifying questions but his focus seemed pulled to Derek and the way he radiates distaste and tension like they’re opposite magnets.

 

“Well, thank you, emissary Hale.” Benjamin smiles tiredly, but the usual warm and settling feeling that came with the title failed to come, leaving a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He wasn’t Derek’s emissary, he wasn’t Derek’s anything and he didn’t know how to handle that. It made his chest hurt and his throat constrict like he was trying to swallow a rock. He couldn’t handle it so he ran away.

 

He was out the door before Derek could even fully straightened up. With a flick of his wrist and a few Gaelic words he sends a confusion enchantment Derek’s way, unwilling to let the werewolf’s advanced senses find him when he really doesn’t want to be found. He darts down hallways and makes the decision to turn on a whim until he finds himself in a large room with a dry, concrete pool. The room is dark and the doors bang behind him as he walks farther in. He lowers himself onto the edge of the pool, hanging his legs over the edge and lets his shoulders droop with the weight of the past few months.

 

He wasn’t the Hale pack emissary, he wasn’t Derek’s emissary, he wasn’t Derek’s anything. Why did that hurt so much? It unsettled his magic, made it thrum painfully in his bones, but this was different. His heart was a heavy sort of hollow, weighing him down with the lack of what should be there.

 

They had grown closer, more like pack. They had grown up and past the tense discussion and borderline abuse, past the hasty, last minute and rash rescues thrown together in bitter comradery. They work together and  talk things over, rely on one another's’ strengths and cover each other's’ weaknesses. There were too many “he saved my life” moments to keep track of and there it is. As much as Derek may need him, rely on his input and and appreciate his opinion, Derek will never find a time where he wants him. At least, not the way Stiles wants Derek.

 

“Well, this isn’t a very happy picture.” Stiles turns around, cracking his spine in the process, to find Alpha Warren with a small smile and his arms crossed over his chest. “What’s wrong, Emissary Hale?” Stiles’ breath hitches but he pushes past it.

 

“Nothing.” He turns back around to stare at the tiles at the bottom of the pool.

 

“I don’t even have to hear your heart to know you’re lying.” Now Stiles is aware of the man’s easy and smooth footsteps and Stiles just knows he’s sauntering.

 

“Well, werewolf or human, I’d tell you to back off.” Stiles stands, clambering to his feet and dusting of his jeans before leveling the alpha with a steady look of “I’m-not-putting-up-with-your-shit”.

 

“Surely we could just talk it over? It’d make you feel better.” Jonathan holds out his arms as if inviting him in for a hug. And part of him - the part that craves pack and being needed and cared for, the part of him that just shattered mere minutes ago - almost steps forward.

 

“That’s my alpha’s job.” Stiles growls, moving to step past the man, prepared to use magic and level the playing field if the alpha tries anything. As prepared as he is for a physical attack, he has no defenses raised against a verbal one.

 

“You certainly don’t act or smell like you have one.” Johnathan states, as easy as telling him the day’s date or that the weather is pleasant. But it hits Stiles like a bus, stopping him in his tracks.

 

“What the fuck are you -” Stiles turns, cut off by the surprise of finding Johnathan right behind him, suddenly face to face and only a few feet between them.

 

“Where is Alpha Hale, hmm? Why isn’t he here to help you, you’re obviously troubled.” Johnathan steps forward, but Stiles only manages to stumble half a step back, “Where is he to protect you?” Stiles’ hand instantly grips his back pocket where Derek’s token has been kept for the past three weeks. “Ah, I see.” Before Stiles can blink a hand is in his back pocket, batting away his own and yanking the wallet away from him.

 

“Give it back.” Stiles tries, but his voice comes out unsteady. His everything is unsteady. He felt like a wind was trying to knock him over and off his feet, like he was being tossed around on crashing waves, like a ship without anchor.

 

“You know, Stiles, it was a nice charade. I was willing to see how long it might drag out for and I have got to say, it was fun to watch.” Jonathan looks through the wallet, through all of the things Stiles transferred from his own wallet the third or fourth day they had been here.

 

“What do you mean?” Stiles sounds slurred to his own ears, off balance and weak.

 

“You aren’t the Hale emissary, Stiles, but you would make a perfect Emissary Warren.” Jonathan leans down the few inches between them, smiling happily, like he’s already won. With what little control he seems to have left of his body, he waves his hands and mutters slurred Gaelic.

 

“Cealaigh.”  _ Undo. _

 

“What did you just do?” Jonathan snarls, darting eyes trying to figure out what Stiles might have done. Unable to figure it out himself, he grabs Stiles shoulders (which might have been a good thing, considering his weak knees) and shakes him, “What did you do?”

 

“There’s a reason why my alpha wasn’t here, and it wasn’t because he didn’t care.” Stiles manages to slur before there’s a painfully loud roar and  Derek is crashing through the doors to the pool and instantly sets his sights on Jonathan.

 

From there, it’s a blur for Stiles as he is unceremoniously dropped from Jonathan’s grip and and then the sounds of battle fill his ears as the two alphas go at it. It’s all snarls and growls and howls of pain. The tearing of clothes and flesh at the mercy of claws and teeth. But Stiles is only barely aware of it. Too concerned with the rush of magic in his ears and the pain that’s taking up a large amount of space in his gut. But with one last painful yelp, silence.

 

“Stiles?” With Derek’s face leaning over him, he let the last of the tension in his body drained, knowing Derek may be injured but he’d be alright. Derek looked concerned, hands hovering over him unwilling to touch and so painfully in need of the reassurance.

 

“Der’k.” He wriggles a bit, still feeling off kilter and wobbly, despite being on the ground already.

 

“What’s wrong, what happened?” Derek turns his gaze back to Stiles’ eyes, pleading with a look for Stiles to tell him how to fix it because that was his job. Stiles sucked at his job. Derek slipped a hand under his shirt, draining the pain Stiles hadn’t fully realized he had until he saw the black veins creep up all the way past Derek’s elbow. All he could manage was a groan as his head pounded and he felt the energy pooling in his hands, twisting in his gut. “Stiles, you’re sparking. You have to tell me how to fix this, what am I supposed to do?”

 

Derek was panicking and he didn’t care if anyone saw. Stiles was here, sprawled out on the ground, without any visible wounds and yet Derek could scent the discomfort, took on the pain that seemed to wash over Stiles in waves. Stiles’ scent had been off for a while now, twinged with something that was just wrong. Sometimes too sweet, too musky. Not enough of his cinnamony spice or the lung clearing scent of autumn and falling leaves. He watched as Stiles hands sparked and the ground around them was slowly covered in a thin layer of frost, the lights above them flickered.

 

“Tok’n.” He mumbles, eyelids drooping. Derek scrambles back up and over to where Jonathan lays unconscious, slowly healing from his wounds but Derek isn’t worried about him. He looks around and finds the wallet tossed to the side, obviously forgotten in battle. He scoops it up and returns to Stiles’ side, placing it in one of his shaky palms, still sparking unevenly. It seems to calm him, if the evening of his heart beat (well as even as the staccato beat could get) was anything to go by.

 

“Stiles, I don’t know what you want me to do.” Derek’s voice cracks, “I don’t know what to do.” 

 

He pulls Stiles gently until he rests in his lap, shoulders propped against his knees. He strokes idly at Stiles’ sharp cheekbones with his thumb, appeasing his wolf which had been pacing all morning in agitation at how little the boy smelled like theirs. He doesn’t know how to fix what’s wrong, so he gives into the pack instinct to comfort and hold. He sees something in the corner of his eye and watches in terrible fascination as the hair at Stiles’ temple shimmers with newfound streaks of white and grey. “Stiles,” he breathes, fingers changing their course and petting at his temples and ears.

 

“Der’k. The ‘ond.” The boy rasps, the slight tremor going through his body shakes his words, but Derek is determined to catch every breath.

 

“The bond? What about the bond?” Derek asks, pulling Stiles closer. Humans always felt relatively cold to werewolves, who ran hotter with a faster metabolism, but Stiles felt downright chilled.

 

“ ‘eak.” Derek takes a deep breath, takes in what that single word means right now. It was their last playable card, but he was still reluctant to use it. Stiles had been so apprehensive to being bitten, always wary of the chance of being Turned. Even after Deaton had explained that this bite was only a mark and a claim, Stiles had smelled of reluctance and the acidic twinge of hurt.

 

“Stiles, that means I have to bite you.” Derek says plainly, paying close attention to Stiles’ heart and scent, monitoring for any higher levels of panic or fear. Stiles breath rattles, but it’s steady, his heart pounds at its regular, spastic rate. His eyelids, which had previously fallen closed as the smell of exhaustion continued to rise, flutter open and Derek spots the beginnings of Stiles’ trademark lopsided smile touch his lips. But Stiles is beyond words now, too lost in whatever he’s feeling. Derek nods, feels like a bobble head. He rearranges Stiles in his arms, cradling him like he’s ready to lift him in a bridal carry, being sure to prop Stiles’ head on his shoulder and expose the long, pale column of his neck.

 

“I’m sorry.” He tells him as he leans in and as he positions his mouth the sharp scent of pain and hurt hit his nose, but he ignores it. His teeth unsheath and he brushes his nose against the delicate skin just once before biting down. There’s blood and a strangled groan of discomfort from Stiles, but Derek ignores it in favor of taking his teeth away and laving at the wound. It’s shallow, but the blood pools as he tries to lick it away and the skin around the marks is already bruising.

 

“Tha’s gross.” Stiles lifts a (much steadier) hand towards Derek after a few minutes. He bats him away from his throat and tucks in his chin. Derek’s wolf whines, denied Stiles’ submission and access to his wound, but Derek holds it back, knowing that Stiles wants his space.

 

“Are you alright now?” Stiles attempts to sit up, body still trembling in random intervals, sparks dancing in the midst the strands of wild hair. The white streaks by his temples remain and put his wolf on edge, something was still wrong.

 

“I’m better, don’t worry, Sourwolf.” Together they get Stiles to his feet, still shaky but he’s standing with minimal assistance.

 

“What happened?”

 

“He took your token from me,” Stiles shrugged, making a face at the way it pulled at obviously sore muscles, “My magic feels … bonded to it. He upset my magic.”

 

“He upset it?” Derek asked incredulously, “Stiles, you looked like you were dying. You have grey hair.” Stiles had been shaking out his legs, tugging at his arms and stretching out the last of the tremors. He doesn’t look at Derek as he gestures to his own temples for reference.

 

“Yeah, magic is weird, weirder than werewolves.” Stiles starts walking towards the door, not looking back to make sure Derek is following, just walking away. Like how he basically ran from the meeting with Benjamin.

 

“Fine,” Derek starts, catching up to the human as he stalks through the halls and towards the exit to the parking lot, “I don’t understand magic. But what was up with you back there? You ran like a hunter was after you.” They make it outside and Stiles makes a beeline for the Camaro, Derek will have to call Benjamin later to explain Alpha Warren and what happened today. Derek had left him as quickly as politeness could allow when Stiles had made a run for it. “You concealed your scent, Stiles, you can’t do that.”

 

“Why not?” Stiles asks petulantly, crossing his arms and staring Derek down from across the top of the car. “Are you annoyed you can’t just sniff me out whenever you want? Don’t get to have your little emotion snitch?” He snarks bitterly.

 

“No, but I would sure as Hell like to be able to sense my only ally in unfamiliar and possibly hostile territory. You left my wolf alone and freaked out and I couldn’t find you and it hurt.” Stiles’ grip on his arms loosens, the startings of a particularly harsh sneer drops from his face.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“I don’t care about that right now, what I want to know is why you needed to run away in the first place.” Derek crosses his own arms, flexing the muscle in a show of dominance he will in no way acknowledge.

 

“I thought we went over how to ask questions with question marks in Chapter 6 of “How To Be A Not Shit Alpha”.” Stiles huffs, rolling his eyes and turning his face to look off to the side, seemingly just annoyed with Derek’s existence overall. And there it is, the mark Derek left, his claim in the form of dark red incisions forming the two crescents of Derek’s jaw. His wolf purred in contentment, knowing if he set his teeth to it, it would match perfectly. The sound must not be entirely internalized because Stiles is turning to look at Derek questionly before his hands comes up to cover his neck, like he’s embarrassed.

 

“I’m sorry.” Derek says softly, feeling the guilt hit him, the shame that comes from knowing he just took satisfaction from something Stiles didn’t want. Stiles’ eyes, once turned to the ground, snap up to meet Derek’s. There’s something cold and hard there, and Derek’s chest aches. With a wave of his hand, the car unlocks with a harsh click and Stiles swings open the door before sliding in and slamming it shut.

 

Derek’s wolf whimpers pitifully.


	9. Hold Me Close (I Was Yours From the Start)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, guys gals and non-binary pals, the final chapter! I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it. It was a labor of love and pushing past pesky plot holes. I have loved your comments and the friends I've made on Tumblr through the process. See you around for the next adventure!!
> 
> Find me at [@ajeepandleather](http://ajeepandleather.tumblr.com)

“You’re back!” Scott comes dashing out the front door of the Hale house to scoop Stiles into a big hug, pushing his face into his best friend’s neck. Stiles laughs and pats Scott on the head in a way that usually gets him smacked for treating him like a puppy or something.

 

The killing of the nocnitsa had been a quiet affair. Benjamin had been adamant on being the one to kill it. He had said he was responsible for those in his territory and therefore he had to dispose of the threat.  They had followed the plan Stiles had layed out during their meeting. The trap was simple, they would repel the creature from one of the Alphas by placing a stone with a hole driven through it into the bed with them, meaning the creature would simply go to the other Alpha in search of her late night snack. From there, Benjamin would lie in wait until she solidified, sitting on Alpha Quddus’ chest and would kill her before she had the chance to drain the woman of the last of her life force.

 

Benjamin had met no resistance when he suggesting the talks be postponed for a few months, noting how sickly and weak the Alpha’s were after such an ordeal. They left on plain terms and agreeing to come back with open minds and a willingness to really work together. It was a relief and a disappointment to leave without any real progress, a relief for it to be over but not a complete loss. Derek had been talking with Sonali nearly the entire conference, exchanging stories about their packs and just talking in general. Derek had managed to make an ally of sorts, but it was Stiles who had sealed the deal. After everything with the nocnitsa and Stiles unwavering involvement in solving the problem, the Quddus and Barnett packs were tentative allies if not friends now, owing their alpha’s lives to his emissary.

 

_ No, not your emissary _ . Derek’s wolf paces discontentedly but he pushes the thoughts back. He can’t afford to smell discontent and upset right now while their coming home and the pack is so happy to see them after being gone for so long. 

 

They pour out of the house after Scott. Erica runs up to Scott and Stiles and practically rips the almost-human from his arms to get her own around him. Boyd walks up and rubs Stiles shoulders a bit before turning to Derek and hugging him briefly. Isaac bounds over like the puppy he is and rubs his hands all over Stiles neck and arms, never one to be subtle about his scent marking. Erica squeezes the life out of Derek once she lets go of Stiles and Isaac hops on his back while Scott pats his shoulder with a happy grin. Jackson saunters out of the house with Lydia who both share their own hugs as Allison rushes out in a flurry.

 

“Sorry, sorry, I meant to come out sooner, but I was finishing making dinner.” She looks around as Kira comes out behind her in a similar state of fluster.

 

“Did we miss the group hug?” The kitsune asks with a little pout, looking up at Derek. It is absolutely unrefusable and Derek doesn’t even try to front that he won’t give in.

 

“Come on.” Derek yanks Erica and Scott closer in, readjusting Isaac as everyone presses in close and laughs while they just bask in being together. Derek breathes in deep, reveling in the scent of pack home family and it pangs at his heart but in the best way it ever could. That is, until he catches sight of Stiles. 

 

He’s standing close, but not close enough. He hugs and he smiles but there’s something wrong about it and it rubs Derek the wrong way. Why wasn’t his packmate happy, what was going on in that crazy head of his? Between those temples that still shine with streaks of grey and white.

 

“Okay, dinner’s on. Wash up, let's go.” Lydia disentangles herself, initiating everyone else’s dismount from the pack huddle as they make their way inside. Isaac starts to slide down Derek’s back but he just grips the beta’s leg tighter and hefts him back up, making him laugh.

 

The chatter amongst the pack is non-stop from there. They are all telling him about the things he’s missed while he was away. From Scott falling out of a tree (that Isaac had dared him to climb) resulting in several broken bones to the newest records Erica had found at the thrift shop downtown. He watched with a smile as his pack gathered around their dining room table and dished what Allison and Kira had been making all afternoon in preparation for their return.

 

Derek looks up from his plate (ignoring how Boyd has snuck a forkful of his Mexican corn from his plate) and looks at Stiles who sits at the opposite end of the table, smiling as Lydia and Jackson bicker over who knows what. Scott tugs on his sleeve from where he sits to Stiles’ right and goes off about yet another fiasco that went down while his best friend was away. Stiles smiles and laughs at all the right places, even manages to get his eyes to crinkle at the side, but there’s something tight and strained in the look. As if he can sense the scrutiny, Stiles catches Derek’s gaze.

 

Stiles’ gaze drops so fast, they may not have ever actually been directed at Derek. And that’s it, he can’t just let this continue so he won’t.

 

“Stiles.” Derek can’t help the alpha that leaks into his voice, but it has the desired effect. Stiles’ gaze snaps back to him unmistakably, wide and somehow still unreadable. “Library, now.” Without another word, Derek is up and out of his seat, ignoring the strange looks from the pack as he leaves the room. 

 

The library was the only non-bedroom room in the house that was soundproofed, at Stiles’ insistence that it needed to be a place of concentration. Derek heard Stiles’ chair scrape against the dining room’s hardwood floor that Stiles had chosen the stain for and pad after him, not trying to catch up. Derek looks out the window across the room as he holds the door open for Stiles to follow him in.

 

Stiles doesn’t flop into one of the obnoxiously plush armchairs Erica had picked out, chooses instead to stand towards the middle of the room, hovering by the shelves. His hands are fidgeting with his sleeves, the way his pants sit on his hips, non existent lint on his chest. He looks out of place. Derek can’t count the number of times he’s found Stiles here, re-reading the beastiary, going over past treaties, looking up who-even-knows-what-this-time on his laptop and yet here he stands like he’s intruding.

 

“What the hell is going on, Stiles?” Derek can’t handle the silence, as much as he begs and pleads for it when the pack are getting rowdy or they squabble amongst themselves, he can’t stand it now.

 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Stiles crosses his arms in a very obvious sign of closed-off thinking.

 

“You know exactly what I mean.” Derek snaps causing Stiles to flinch. It’s a small thing, barely there, but it’s there and it breaks Derek’s heart. “I’m sorr-”

 

“Would you stop saying that?” Now it’s Stiles who snaps, harsh and malicious and under all of that, hurt. His scent sours and Derek can’t help how his eyes immediately look at the salt and pepper streaks and his wolf whines.

 

“Stop what.” He asks, confused and unwilling to show it, so the question doesn’t come out very question-like.

 

“Saying ‘sorry’! You keep saying it and I hate it, so either stop or …. Just stop!” Stiles throws his hands up before dropping them and covering his face. He can smell the salt and wet of tears, watches as Stiles hair lifts with static electricity. But the clear and electric scent of Stiles’ magic has changed, it’s sharp like steel and rotten like apples going soft.

 

“I don’t know what I did wrong! What else do you want me to do?” Derek shouts, flexing his hands at his sides and trying his damnedest not to growl in sheer frustration.

 

“You bit me!” Stiles exclaims, collapsing backwards into an armchair, putting his hands in his hands. He’s muttering something else but it’s lost on Derek because he has to focus on keeping control away from his wolf. It whines and paces, ready to just fall over and give up because it’s been rejected even after it felt so right.

 

“Look, I know you didn’t want it -” Derek is cut off by a bark of laughter. But, like everything so far tonight, it isn’t right.  It’s harsh and grating and so terribly wrong that Derek looks up from where the blood of his palms is dripping on the carpet that Lydia wanted.

 

“I didn’t want it? Derek, you are so completely stupid sometimes.” Stiles mutter, another mirthless laugh.

 

“Yeah.” Derek confirms slowly, feeling like he’s missed something important.

 

“You are such a fucking martyr, you asshole.” Stiles looks up to glare at him, “This isn’t fucking about me, it’s about you. You and how everyone is always hurting you and I’ve always been ready to fucking eviscerate anyone who so much as looked at you wrong, and here I am committed the greatest sin against Derek Hale.”

 

“What’s that?” Derek chokes on the words, but he’s not going to take them back. He’s always known Stiles to get defensive of him, he’s always been the first one to go up in arms for Derek’s sake. (Okay, maybe not always, but they were past that.) But this felt knew, this was a new level.

 

“Taking your choices away.” Stiles replies, so soft even a werewolf would strain. He’s looking down at his hands again, twisting and bending his fingers as they manipulate the last, dying rays of sunlight that filter through the window. Derek mulls that over, really thinks about what Stiles is saying and tries to see things the way he has.  “I didn’t want your pity, Derek,”

 

“That wasn’t pity -”

 

“Of course it w-”

 

“No, Stiles, it wasn’t. I did it to save you.” Derek replants his feet, physically reaffirming his stance.

 

“That’s the same thing.”

 

“If it was pity, it wouldn’t have felt right.” Derek tells him with so much conviction that it seems to lift Stiles’ chin until they’re looking at one another. Stiles looks so utterly confused that it physically hurts in his chest, but his wolf is standing now, really standing. It’s no longer pacing, it’s tall and proud and sure.

 

“But-”

 

“No, Stiles!” Derek practically roars, “I didn’t pity you, and I am sorry because I took your choice away. You didn’t choose me and you don’t want anything to do with the bite and there I was fucking claiming you. ” Derek can’t seem to catch his breath, unable to believe that Stiles doesn’t understand. Derek’s the bad guy here, not him. “So tell me, how that,” Derek gestures to the bite marks, still red on his neck, “was pity.”

 

“You want me? As your emissary?” Stiles chokes out, disbelief and wonder coloring his eyes. Derek can feel the energy in the room shift and slowly the sharp and decaying scent from before is giving way to Stiles’ petrichor and autumn leaves.

 

“Of course I do, you idiot.” Derek sighs, but it comes out less like exasperation and more like fond relief. Stiles nods, but the fact that his eyes are still as wide as they can be gives away his disbelief. But not even the mist starting to take over Stiles’ gaze can distract Derek from the way the hair at his temples has returned to it’s youthful shade of brown. “Stiles-” He’s reaching out to the bo- man that has stood up from his chair. Fingertips just centimeters from the short strands.

 

“No, I can’t- I’ll tell you, but only after.” Stiles shakes his head, managing to push just barely, maybe subconsciously, into the touch so that the hair ghosts over Derek’s fingers.

 

“After what?” They’ve gotten close, slowly inching in on each other until now. Now they’re just a few feet from each other, not touching but the possibility is there waiting to be acted on.

 

“Do you accept me as your emissary? Will you take me into you pack as your second? Will you keep me as your own?” There’s so much Derek wants to say, so much that he should say, but none of it makes sense. He can’t make it sound right in his head so he’s not going to even try to speak it out loud.

 

“Yes.” Stiles smiles and it’s like he becomes three dimensional again. Like all this time, Derek’s been talking to a cardboard cut out and now here Stiles is in living flesh. He’s bright and breathing and his scent is strong and right.

 

“Der?” Stiles is still smiling, but now there’s a teasing lilt to it.

 

“Yeah?” He doesn’t care that he sounds a little dumb and slow, because Stiles is smiling and warm and right in front of him.

 

“This is where you bite me.” Derek’s breath hitches a bit, but he manages to stay on his feet. “For real this time.” Derek smiles and nods, already reaching out and grabbing Stiles by the waist to draw him in closer. Stiles arms sling around his neck and he’s tilting his jaw to the side, giving Derek the perfect path to fitting his teeth over the marks already laid out.

 

“Wait,” it pains him to pull away, but he has to clarify this one last thing.

 

“Derek.” Stiles whines.

 

“No, I just- can I kiss you first?” Stiles turns his face back to look at Derek incredulously, but his arms are still wrapped around his neck and he hasn’t moved away.

 

“What?”

 

“I can’t- I need you to be all in. I can’t have only one side of you, Stiles. If you’re my emissary, I need you, too.” Stiles takes a moment to gape at him before making an indignant noise and crashing their mouths together.

 

It’s a mess and is just on the wrong side of painful before Stiles tugs at his hair, angling their faces so their lips line up and then it’s … still not perfect. Their teeth knock every once in awhile and Stiles stumbles through it the way he’s stumbled through his entire life. But nothing could ruin this for him because he was finally getting exactly what he wanted.

 

“Der, I need- please.” Stiles pulls away first, using his grip on his hair to push Derek towards the exposed column of his neck in blatant offering. And who is he to refuse Stiles of anything? 

 

This time, he doesn’t just groan in discomfort but he whimpers with the surge that rushes through them both making Derek clamp down even harder. He feels his canines sever muscle and blood floods over his tongue and Stiles is limp in his arms like he’s dying but Derek can feel the way his magic thrums with energy and life. He pulls back finally, unclenching his jaw but doesn’t move away, just repeats the process like last time of licking and soothing the wound while Stiles drapes complacent in his grip.

 

“Oh my god, Der.” Stiles giggles, causing Derek to pull back in confusion, looking over Stiles’ face to make sure he isn’t dying and this is hysteria setting in, “You totally love me.” Stiles grins dorkily with soft eyes.

 

“Yeah, I really do.” Derek smiles, soft and small but Stiles’ grin is plenty big for the both of them.

 

“Well, I love you, too, big guy.”

 

“Now what about …” Derek trails off, stroking at Stiles temples as a frown forms on his face.

 

“Okay, just remember the love confessions, yeah? You love me and won’t eat me or be super mad becau -”

 

“Stiles.” Derek’s grip tightens around the man, drawing him closer. He takes a deep breath before dropping his head to Derek’s shoulder and running his fingers through the hair at his nape.

 

“Deaton told me it wasn’t safe for an emissary to not be tied to a pack and still be helping them. It was an imbalance in nature, so I was, well, I was losing my mind.” Stiles shrugs, like this is no big deal. But Derek is gaping at him, eyes wide and hands clenching around Stiles’ hips.

 

“Stiles-”

 

“I know! I didn’t tell you and I’m sorry but I had a good reason.”

 

“Better be a damn good reason.” Derek growls, and with the way their chests are pressed together Stiles is sure to feel it as well as hear it.

 

“I didn’t want you to pity bond me, Der.” Stiles mutters quietly, shrugging yet again. “I wanted you to choose me, and you have. In more ways than one.” And there’s that smile again, bright and warm and all for Derek.

 

“Ready to break the news to the pups?” Derek smiles as Stiles groans, but he can hear the affection and fondness.

 

“I have officially adopted them, haven’t I?” Derek hums in agreement, ducking in for a kiss.

 

“Basically signed the legal papers.” He murmurs.

 

“Maybe one day we can do that.” Stiles whispers back against his lips, the air around them safe and content. At least it is until Stiles jerks back as far as Derek will let him with a wild look in his eyes, “Oh my god, that was so presumptuous and oh god I am so sorry, I- we don’t have to- that was really fast and-”

 

“Stiles?” Stiles stops, looking up at him with bright red cheeks, “Shut up.” Derek smiles and Stiles giggles and really there’s nothing else to it.


End file.
